


Sewn Deeds

by DarkChocolateCheesecake



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkChocolateCheesecake/pseuds/DarkChocolateCheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesday already and you have the pleasure of seeing the taller of the twins for the third time this week.</p><p>Sunday had been important he’d said. Monday had been really, <i>really</i> important, he’d said.</p><p>But despite his requests for help with “emergencies,” any issues he had had taken only an hour to correct. Honestly, it was beginning to make you wonder if the Assassin wasn’t simply bothered for company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Frye Twins. Like thunder and lightning working in stormy tandem, those two.

Beautiful. Fearsome. Deadly.

It’s a shame that the younger of the twins isn’t displaying any of those qualities now. Or any redeeming qualities, really. Yet again, the broad-shouldered man is here taking liberties in visiting you at your shop during the early hours of its operation. His arrival hasn’t negatively affected your sales just yet. Although some of your clients cast him sidelong glances, they are otherwise unbothered by his rough appearance and are happy to pick up their garments. And yet…

“Mr. Frye, I realize that you may have drawn your own impressions, but this is not —” You rest your crossed forearms on the counter after a cautious glance about to ensure your hissed warning goes unheard to those for whom it is not meant. “I repeat, is NOT your personal playhouse. You cannot simply come and go as you please. I’ve work to do!”

Tuesday already and you have the pleasure of seeing the taller of the twins for the _third_ time this week. Sunday had been important he’d said. Monday had been really, _really_ important, he’d said. But despite his requests for help with “emergencies,” any issues he had had taken only an hour to correct. Honestly, it was beginning to make you wonder if the Assassin wasn’t simply bothered for company.

He’s been just grateful enough for your help to stave off your ire, though.

Matter of fact, if he didn’t pay so well, you may have considered barring your business to him to save yourself the stress. But here he is _again_ , idly looking over your wares in that familiar flitting dance around the true intentions of his visit until he is ready.

He looks up from the side of the store where he is enjoying eying things — various materials to take measurements, make adjustments, and lay out designs for clothing. Eventually, as he always does, he makes his way to some of your larger machinery, lips fluttering with questions about how things work and what they are for. Remarkable how childlike he is with that glint of equal parts mischief and curiosity in his eyes.

Thankfully, unlike most children, he seems to keep his hands to himself.

“Oh, I’m hurt. I thought you so loved my visits.” He says in mock offense while examining sewing hooks and needles with a comical grimace. “Can’t keep working all the time, you know. Aside from my sister, you’re the busiest woman I’ve met.”

Aaaand, he’s gone again. Just like that. Turning and focusing his attention on the bulk of a sewing machine. Any attempts made to refocus Jacob to any task he doesn’t find particularly interesting is always a concentrated effort. You need a moment or two to take the payment of a customer picking up a full-bodied ball gown, and you do your best to wear a mask of courteous service under the circumstances.

After the woman makes her departure, you glance around to see whether your shop is empty and _where_ on earth that damned man’s gone. With racks and racks of clothing on display, he could quite literally be anywhere. You call out to him, louder than normal since it appears it’s just the two of you now. “Then, may I ask why it is you’re here? _Again_?”

“Oh, me?” He calls from the opposite side of the store.

 _When the hell did he_ _…?_

You catch sight of him the very moment he’s gone and pricked his finger on the sharp needle of one of your sewing machines during his explorations, drawing his hand back quickly with a muttered curse as though he’s touched fire. Curiosity placated or simply in search for less prickly company, he turns back to the counter now and brings the injured digit to his mouth, each step of his boots heavy against the wood floor.

Remarkable how he can walk in those things. They’re so tattered and worn. And the laces _untied_.

His whole image hums of near-charming dishevelment. That hair of his, despite how it kills you to admit, is quite fetching under that lopsided cap. Just slightly messy and hastily brushed back. Nicely complementing that quirk of his lips and those clever eyes, always working in unison to get things going just how he likes.

Some reasons why he fell just short of charming would be what is a distractingly large mustard stain on his lapel, the fresh mud he’s traipsed in on your clean floors, and the patchwork of his clothing that made him look more like a rag doll than Assassin. Soon enough, he’s closing the distance to your counter, and the smell of him fills your senses.

Gunpowder, leather, and what _is_ that? Dirt? Coal? Not at all the usual scent of your clients. Far too often, they are overly perfumed women and cologned men, equally grandiose in their appearance as their smells. But for all the trouble he is, earthy smell and all, it is rather nice to have someone like Jacob around for company. He can be genuinely good company when not out to cause you grief.

He rests his weight on an elbow on the wooden counter, his free hand shuffling through his pocket a moment before fishing out a sizable bundle of money.

“Since you need to know, I’m here because I have _aaallll this moooney_ and I need a service done.” What money he has, he holds to fan himself dramatically, donning the accent of a misplaced Southern belle. “But if it’s a botha’, my dear, I can go elsewhere.”

You roll your eyes. Unlike days prior, you’ve a full schedule today and little patience for interruptions. But then there’s that look of his, that almost sultry-eyed spark of a look that’s so sure you won’t say no. _Hopefully_ , what he needs is quick. “Go on. Out with it, then.”

“I knew you’d come around.” He drops the accent and chuckles, pleased with your willingness to listen. There’s quite a bit of money fanned out on the table now as he finally gets to the heart of his visit. “I need a suit made.”

“A suit?” You parrot disbelievingly as you begin to count what he has given you. He’s certainly come to the right place for that. You look up to catch his gaze. “For… _you_?”

“Yes. A suit. As my sister said:” He holds his hands up together before spanning them out like a grand marquee. “‘A suit that would make a pig sparkle.’”

You grin inwardly. Evie always did have a sharp-tongued wit about her. “I think you’d sooner be comfortable in a burlap sack, Mr. Frye.”

“Yes, well, given the option I would wear the sack. But I don’t think the knob ends I’ll be rubbing elbows with would be able to overlook that.” He holds his chin and looks away thoughtfully. “Though, I do wonder if anyone has been killed by a burlaped assassin.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” you say in playful response to his musing. But back to business — you’ve a lot to do today. “Mr. Frye, how would you li—”

“What would you even call that?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Sacksassination?”

“Mr. Frye…”

“Death by burlassassin? That can’t be a pleasant last sight before dying. The humiliation alone would —”

“ _Jacob_ , please!”

“There we go.” He coos as his gaze snaps back to you. “Always so formal. You know, you _can_ call me by my name.”

“Jacob. _Please_. Focus.”

“Oh, I’m always focused on you. You know that.” He finishes with a half smirk.

This man would have you plastered in the papers come morning. ‘ _Madwoman Strangles Infuriating Customer_ ’ the title would read. Hopefully, with enough time passed, Evie would forgive you and break you out of prison instead of breaking in to murder you herself.

“Mister. Frye.” You close your eyes. Hopefully, the air filling your lungs will stabilize your energy into attempting to be the picture of patience. “You said you need a suit made. What kind of suit?”

“Fancy.” He rolls his broad shoulders. “Is there any other? It doesn’t matter.”

You cast Jacob a curious look and drum your fingers on the countertop. “That all depends on these _knob ends_ you’ll be meeting. Where is it?”

“Some politician’s place.”

“ _Which_ politician’s place?”

“The Prime Minister’s.”

“ _The_ bloody Prime Minister?” Really, he should be awarded for being able to act so nonchalantly. “Is this… is this for _work_?”

If he could answer with just a knowing smile, he would. But the temptation of teasing you further seems to be his soft spot. He leans in close across the counter, his voice dropping to a sultrier pitch. “Just make me something that can hold my gun, would you? Nothing else matters.”

You scoff off the teasing at the near-insulting implication. “Wha— Yes, it matters! Your vest, trousers, coat, your tie, even your cuff links! It all matters! Those stuck up sods will see you sticking out like an elephant at a horse show if your clothes aren’t just so, Mr. Frye!”

“Then I’ve come to the right place, haven’t I? You always treat me so well.” He beams a smile and waggles that scarred eyebrow, eyes glinting with enjoyment — whether it’s at the conversation or your misery, you can’t say. Quite possibly both.

“Hah! _Right_ , of course.” You roll your eyes to shake off the last drops of sarcasm from your tone and continue. “I _may_ have an idea of what would be a good fit for you for something that posh. When are you able to come in for measurements?”

That permanent grin of his widens. But he remains otherwise silent.

The moment you’ve taken to tuck away his payment is rewarded with silence. That can’t be good. When you finally look to him, he’s standing with arms outstretched — almost as if he is beckoning for a _hug...?_ You squint your confusion and suspicion at him, but he merely stays playfully welcoming.

Then it hits you.

“What? _Now?_ Right now?” The eager nodding of his head answers your questions with his fingers curling in a playful ‘come over’ gesture.

Does he _ever_ give you notice on anything he needed? Any time he has come in with a request, it has always been a fix-it-now situation. It’s a strain on you, definitely. And perhaps constantly giving in to his needs was only enabling this behavior and creating a self-sustaining cycle that always had him coming back for more. But with the way he’s looking at you now…

You roll your tongue across the inside of your cheek while resting your hands on you hips, looking every color of displeased.

He’s making his own expressions now, ranging from a deep, dramatic frown and miming tears from his eyes with his fingers; to quirking his lips up in another of his grins and waggling his eyebrows suggestively; to finally rolling his eyes heavenward and leaning across the counter between you, fingers clasped in playful begging. He even bothered to take off his cap.

“Listen. It’ll be worth it. I know, _I know_. It’s short notice, but I know what you can do — I’ve seen it! You’re amazing.” Well, you hadn’t expected that. From the flattery, the payment, and that pleading look he’s melting you with how could you say no? “Plus, I really really _really_ don’t trust anyone else with touching my junk.”

Watching him sputter for breath from your shove to his chest only has the both of you laughing much as you’d like to hurt him. Just a little.

“Fine, but let’s be quick about it.” You tie back your hair and roll up your sleeves as you begin to make you way toward the sectioned off measuring room. It’s a spacious and private area with display suits, seating, and a rounded platform equipped with an ornately wooden framed tri-panel mirror. “If you would, Mr. Frye, I’ll need you to get undressed, please.”

His head jerks slightly back and his steps slow as he follows you. “I’m sorry, what? I’m flattered, really, and _tempted_ , but my sister Evie would never approve. Just think: an assassin and a tailor. She’d lose her poor head!”

“Then let’s make sure at least one of you keeps your head tonight. We need to make you passable for this event. Clothes off and stand there, please.” You retrieve your measuring tape and point to a wide, circular wooden platform no more than 6 inches off the ground.

“Don’t you normally just take measurements with clothes on?” He approaches the disk and stands on it, looking himself over in the mirrors arranged nearby.

What’s this? The great Jacob Frye showing hesitation toward something? You fold your arms. Really, there isn’t time for this today. But damn if this man hasn’t quickly figured out how to get you on his side of doing things. Money and, to a less potent extent, playful charm usually wins you over.  
  
“Yes, _normally_ , I would be able to measure you in what you’re wearing. For a _normal_ suit. However, you want a custom-made suit with enough room for your…” You allow your eyes the pleasure of raking his form from top to bottom and back again.

“My…?” He prods, catching your gaze in the mirror’s reflection with a small smirk that holds an ocean of bad intentions.

“Tools. Room for your tools.” You reply coolly and look away from his mirrored twin. “So, I’ll need a close measurement to make sure you don’t poke yourself with some poisoned blade and give your sister even _more_ ammunition to blast you with.”

He groans and rolls his eyes, the opportunity for whatever lewd comment he was cooking is now lost upon being reminded of his sister. He begins to disrobe from his usual ratty garb. “You won’t _believe_ how much she bothered me to prepare for this. For two weeks straight she’s been pestering me day and night!”

Ah, so that’s why he’s been insisting on your company so recently — a needed favor and a sibling to hide from.

Using his sister as bait rewards you with much-needed, but short-lived relief. With him talking and focusing on other things, it’s your hope that you can get through measuring him more quickly. Without his interruptions, without his flirting, without him being so… so _Jacob_. The distraction works. Until, that is, you are distracted in turn.

While his mouth is still carrying on about his sister’s insistent ways, your mind can barely register the words once he reveals more of his body. His heavy coat is shrugged down his rolling, muscular shoulders and tossed haphazardly on a nearby table. His cap soon follows to rest on top of it, almost teetering off the side. The view now, completely clear of worn leathers, has your hand subconsciously clenching until the metal ends of your measuring tape dig painfully into your palm.

You had always known Jacob to possess a handsome figure, but now it begins to dawn on you that he will be very close to being nude in front of you _very soon_. And you will need to touch rather intimate areas to ensure a proper fitting. God help you should he decide tease you.

What on earth were you thinking agreeing to this?

Silence breaks through the hum of his voice that had been carrying on in part-annoyance, part-mockery and you look up with a start. His gaze is already resting on your own, locked and inquisitive, before the corners of his lips turn in a slight smile. “So, was that a yes or a no?”

You blanch somewhat. Shit, did he ask a question? Your mouth opens, closes, and opens again. “I-I’m sorry?”

Oh, that wicked grin of his has your heart beating faster.

“I _said_ …” His right hand glides along his waist and your eyes follow the trail. It travels smoothly along the fabric there and rests on his belt before curling his fingers and pointing a digit down — your gaze stops at the suggestive indication to his crotch. “…should I take my shoes off?”

Oh. _Oh_. Your eyes travel lower. He’s pointing to his shoes. Of course. Just his shoes.

Still, you could have sworn he rolled his hips forward just slightly when he guided your gaze from his face to his hips and eventually to his boots. The whole interaction leaves your mouth dry and your pulse quickening. “Pants off. Shoes on. …please.”

“Yes, _ma_ _’am_.” He replies, tongue darting out to roll over his upper lip.

He toes off his boots simply enough. They looked ready to fall off with each step he took anyway. And after wiggling a charming big toe peeping from a hole in his sock, he begins to take off his belt. Never skipping a beat though, he’s right back on track to complaining about his sister, belt landing with a clatter next to his coat.

“And _then_ she says to me, she says:” He puts on his best high-pitched Evie impression. “ _Jacob! If you can_ _’t take this mission seriously, then the Templars will gain ground and cause more people to suffer_!”

You can’t help snickering as he continues his venting, completing his act by sashaying his hips. There’s still love in his tone as he goes on about the mannerisms ways of his twin. The love is heavily drowned out with annoyance, naturally, but it is still present.

He scrunches up his face, continuing his act. “ _You have to make sure you look your best tonight or they_ _’ll get away with their plans!”_

Wait, what?

You shoot Jacob with a look and narrow your eyes, stopping him with a raised hand before he can continue. “Wait—wait just a moment. Jacob, _when_ exactly is this event of yours?”

The muscles in his shoulders and arms coil and unfurl as he deftly unbuttons his vest, leaving you with a remarkably pleasant view of his broad shoulders leading down to his waist. Good god, even with his shirt on it is apparent how remarkably toned his body is. It’s a sight you would certainly love to drink in and appreciate fully, but his last words still ring in your ears. The glimpse you catch of the soft trail of fuzz leading down to the front of his pants as he untucks his half-tucked shirt is doing a miraculous job of distracting you from that ringing, though.

“Tonight.” He says, tossing his vest on the table with his coat. “Why?”

The infamous lack of forward planning mind of Jacob Frye at work.

“ _What?_ _”_ The measuring tape falls from your hand, metal endpoints hitting the floor with a barely audible _klak_. “Jacob,” you start, tone hesitant in bringing bad news. “I… I can’t possibly make a suit in one day. _Less_ than a day! It takes time just to make one!”

“Oh. Hm.” He says, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows furrowed. His hands had begun working on his shirt buttons, oddly intent on continuing. Has he misheard you? “Well, that may just be a problem.”

“I— well, yes. Custom-made suits are labor intensive and take time to make, Jacob. I’m sorry, but I-I can’t do this for you that soon.” You say with hopes he’ll understand. The man is no fool, but it seems apparent that he hasn’t quite given up on this yet. His shirt is now unbuttoned at his collarbones, granting you with a better view of the coin he keeps tied about his neck.

His face is twisted up in thought as he stands with his hands _still_ trailing down the front of his shirt — down just below his pectorals now. You want to maintain your focus on the current situation, on how you cannot possibly help him in less than 24 hours’ time. It’s impossible to craft a custom-ordered suit to fit that well-sculpted body so quickly. He’s no small man, after all. Just watching him here, soon-to-be shirtless and preoccupied with his thoughts, has you wanting to take a step closer for a better look.

You close your eyes and swallow, tongue sticking to the back of your dry mouth. _Focus_.

“What if,” he starts, pointing a hand to indicate the storefront outside the current room. “What if I buy one of the suits you’ve already made? You can alter it, right? Take it out a little, add some lining pockets, work your magic. Shouldn’t take that long.”

The extra moments you take to clear your thoughts of his semi-nude body are entirely wasted once you open your eyes again.

Downright indecent ideas come flooding back and you clench your thighs together automatically and flounder for words. His shirt is discarded now and you’re given a completely unobstructed view of skin, marred and scarred from years of Assassin training and a fair share of boyhood recklessness, no doubt. Curled trails of hair that you had only caught snippets of now revealed new paths — up from his groin, narrowing at his waist, and expanding again to reach across his chest in an unexpectedly pleasing dark pattern that has your fingertips longing for a touch. Even your peripheral vision is clouded with his image — the tri-paneled mirror has you seeing angles of the pleasant expanse of his back as well. His shoulder blades, the apparent firmness of his biceps, and were those dimples just above his ass? _Lord above_ , this is beginning to be more than you can handle.

“That… Ah. That is, it’s… Well. M-maybe. That may be something I can do.” You finally say, not sure how long you’ve spent ogling Jacob’s form.

“Good idea, huh?” He’s beaming now and giving you a playful wink, either unaware of your hungry glances or too polite to voice it. His hands gesture his still-clothed lower half in a repeated swooping motion. “Should I uh…”

“Yes!” You say, far too quickly and far too loudly. Hopefully, the guise of being hasty will cover your thinly veiled excitement. “I have just the suit in mind, but still need to know how well you will fit in it. And we need to be quick. Hurry up!”

He’s muttering something under his breath. No doubt a perverted joke that you do not have time or attention to pay. You gather a fountain pen and notepad quickly, writing down a series of words, well spaced out and neatly penned. Three sheets are written out in total before you turn back to Jacob who’s been patiently, and oddly quietly, waiting for your return. It takes all your professional willpower not to steal even a fleeting glance at his drawers. Though, from peripheral vision, they stop just short of his knees and are a pristine white.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” He asks while giving his chest a small scratch.

You clear your throat. “Instructions. For you.” You clarify, before he can ask and make your way over to him and offer the notebook.

“You think I need instructions to be measured? Oh, come now.” He hands the notebook back to you.

“ _No_ , I think you need instructions while you mind my store. Since, as you recall, I will be busy in the back altering a suit for you.” You return the notebook back to him.

“A suit I’ve _already_ paid for!” He sets the notebook atop your head. Partly to absolve his end of the bargain and partly just for kicks.

“ _Partially_ paid for, yes. But not its alterations, my labor in doing so, and the express service that not only puts you ahead of all my other clients, but also gets you same-day results.” You manage to say in your calmest voice, taking the pad balanced on your head, gently ripping the sheets out and proffering them to Jacob.

Hesitantly, and eyes narrowed in a childlike but otherwise silent pout, he accepts it and looks it over while you get to work.

“Good,” you nod in final victory. “I think you’ll be very pleased with how this turns out, Mr. Frye. Just a moment and I’ll be right back.”

He’s still looking over the sheets with rapidly waning interest when you return, several dress shirts in hand. You retrieve your previously discarded measuring tape and hold several of the shirts up to him. The look on his face is less than enthused.

“Any particular preference, Mr. Frye?” You shuffle the shirts up by their hangers in a practiced fashion.

“Whichever is less confining, I guess?” He shrugs his shoulders. It’s clear the man has no real care for _how_ he looks as long as he’s able to get the job done.

“Mmn. This one, then.” You hold out a blue-gray dress shirt that he puts on with little fuss. Once fully buttoned, he rolls his shoulders experimentally, arching that scarred eyebrow in pleasant surprise that has you smiling and nodding along. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Lightweight, smooth, high thread count. Sturdy, but not too dense.”

“Do bloodstains wash out easily?” He asks plainly enough that you have to stifle a laugh that emerges as scoff.

“Yes, of course. They’re also tear-proof. And bullet-proof. I hear if you clap your hands and spin ‘round three times, they’ll make you invisible.” You circle to his back, beautifully broad and muscled, and begin to measure.

“At least _one_ of those things sounds untrue.” He says with a soft smile. Things are moving along smoothly until you circle back to his front to get an accurate chest measurement.

He raises his arms at your polite request to guide the tape around to hug his body and lowers them as you need. And, goodness, his chest is so wide. It wouldn’t be such a terrible indulgence to linger your touch on his chest, would it? The indecision within you lasts for the briefest moment before your fingertips ghost across his clothed skin where the tape end circles itself. Just moments ago he’d been shirtless, bare to your hungry gaze. Shame you won’t be seeing that again.

He chuckles and, quick as a flash, catches both your hands in his. Panic of being caught lust-handed tenses your spine and you look up. He’s shaking his head slowly.

“Careful there,” his voice lowers to a hushed whisper and his mouth curls into a smile as he leans in close as though to share a secret. “I’m a tad ticklish.”

You wordlessly mouth an ‘oh’ before your voice finally finds you. “…Oh! I’m so sorry. I’ll… ah, I’ll be more careful.”

He continues being a willing model. Holding too still for something that isn’t sleeping or eating or work related has never been his forte. But here he is, as still and gentle as a lamb while you measure him from shoulder to sleeve and around then about his collar. Though, many times throughout measuring him, you catch his gaze lingering on you with an unusual amount of focus.

It causes your throat to knot considerably.

Once done, you step back and take in a sharp breath. “If, uh, if you would put your shoes back on, Mr. Frye, we can measure for your trousers.”

“Yes, _ma_ _’am._ ” He says, the pleasing timbre of his voice shifting something deep in your core.

The precious few seconds he spends retrieving his shoes gives you time to mentally slap yourself. _Get it together_. He is a client. An _Assassin_ client. Fulfill the job request and send him on his way. Nothing more, nothing less.

“So, just like this, then? With the shoes … _on_?” He asks, straightening himself up from having just put on his last boot. It does look a bit silly, him standing in dress shirt, underpants, and boots.

You nod, not trusting your voice. And for good reason. It’s time to measure him around rather intimate areas to ensure a good fitting. Professional fortitude as your guard, you approach the platform again and kneel next to Jacob, running the tape about his waist and then his hips. Thankfully, he continues without flirtatious comment whilst doing that. All that’s left is the outseam and inseam. Not exactly easy, but perhaps with enough guidance…

“So, what are this evening’s festivities about?” You shift on your knees at Jacob’s side as you make your inquiry, busying your hands to measure his leg height from hip to floor. Hopefully, the distraction of the mission will quiet your thoughts and keep him occupied.

“Oh, you know how it goes. Unfurl Templar plot. Find Templar fiend. Bust some heads. Save the day.”

“Quite the storybook hero, aren’t you?” Outseam finished. Now to just carefully measure the inseam…

“Not exactly. The men in those tales don’t go looking to stir up trouble.” He pauses and scratches his chest for a moment. “Probably cause less property damage, too.”

To your surprise, measuring his inseam offers little distraction and he prattles on without pause or making quips. You give a soft snort that’s the remnants of a stifled laugh and make to stand, notepad in hand. “Ever the charmer, Mr. Frye.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The warm fingers of his hand envelop yours to pull you to your feet. His touch lingers far longer than needed and your questioning gaze receives no clear answer. That delightfully firm, slow rub of his thumb across the back of your hand has your stomach doing tight flips. “So, how much is this going to cost me, exactly?”

Good God, the man is a walking contradiction of the subtlety of an assassin and the brash forwardness of a young man, but you find your voice on the topic of money — bills still need to be paid.

“Well, I’ll be charging you my usual rate on top of the cost of the suit and expedited service.” His grip on your hand loosens at your words. Perhaps money isn’t the most plentiful thing in the Assassin arsenal of late. “But the fitting is free.” You add with a small smile.

“No Assassin discount, then?”

“No, Mr. Frye. I’ve a business to run. I’m sure you can afford it. Unless you have plans to steal from me?”

“Me? No, ma’am. Never.” His face settles into an expression of untold wolfish mischief. “I don’t steal from lovely ladies when I can help it.”

“And if I were a lovely lady _Templar_?”

“I’d probably have to steal some information you were hiding, some supplies you had stolen…” His voice trails off as the hand that had been holding yours pulls you gently forward. And he complements the motion, taking a step to close a friendly distance into something much more intimate. Your skin prickles at the feel of his free hand sliding its weight across your side to rest on your lower spine. And the heat of his breath on your neck and ear as he speaks, words somehow hot _and_ chilling, send heated goosebumps across your skin. “…your life, too, if needed.”

Containing the shiver that courses lightning-quick up your spine is impossible. Seeing that toothy grin in the corner of your eye confirms it. Even if you had been able to keep still to keep him from seeing, that hand kneading delicious circles in your back would have felt it for sure. Your breath is coming in short gulps now, mind swimming in endless circles between _stop_ and _keep going_. He exhales soft appreciation at your, until now, loose hold on his hand that tightens considerably. Along with every other muscle south of your bellybutton.

He’s moving closer now, taking your shivers and tight grip as positive indicators. Completely unaware of the turmoil taking place behind your eyes. It would be so easy… Just a few bits of clothing lost to the dance of searching hands, and doubt lost to the song of gasping moans. Your vision darkens when your eyes flutter closed, head canting just slightly to embrace more of his warm breath. God, you need this. More of his touch, this ill-timed lust. A break from this ceaseless work and duty.

It’s the smell of him again — far too pleasant and intoxicating — that finally wrenches you back down from your momentary high, eyes wide and body stiff.

“I… I need to work, Mr. Frye.” He’s quick to stop what surely would have been a hot assault on the exposed skin of your neck. The words ring with momentary indecision before he makes himself more upright. His features stay the same, but the corners of his lips falter just slightly. Disappointing confusion, no doubt. He presses no further and slides his hands off and away from your lower back. Your body is begging for the warmth seconds after it leaves, but your mind soldiers on. “I’ll…ah, need all the time I can get if you are to look your best this evening.”

“Yes, I should be so lucky tonight goes off without a hitch. But where’s the fun in that?” He smiles warmly and moves off to gather his clothes and dress himself again. Like nothing has happened at all. “So, I’m to mind the shop, am I?”

The sharp change in topic leaves you with a second’s hesitation before you nod your agreement. “Yes, yes. Nothing too much. Just give out people’s orders by their order number. If anyone comes to place a new order — well, you have my instructions. I’m sure you know what to do.”

It’s only after he leaves the room that you give yourself the time to exhale deeply. Screaming would be nice. Screaming would be absolutely wonderful given the number of unbelievably foolish choices made today. But there’s hardly time for that when, of course, there’s work to be done. Always, always work.

You give a quick glance to the doorway Jacob passed through, tongue darting out to lick your dry lips before quickly moving to the far side of the room and through a closed door into your workshop. Past the machines, past the fabrics, past the tables of measuring and cutting tools. Those things would work for a normal suit for normal uses. But they won’t do now. No, this is a job for the machines _in the back_.

The key turns in the locked door as solidly as always. Christ above, how long has it been since you’ve been in here? Four? Five years? The exact time frame is lost to you as you shut and lock the door behind you and light up the room. It’s smaller than your normal sewing area. Much cozier, much less frills. And the machine on the table, a goliath of a thing, sits as stoic and silently threatening as always under its cover.

There’s time for a silent prayer to whichever deity is listening before you move to a side metal wardrobe, sturdy and locked tight. It lightly screeches open with the grating sound of metal on metal before you rest your eyes on it: the last of countless attempts, quietly waiting to be finished.

-✩-

“Mr. Frye?” You call out, peering around the open doorway to the front of your shop. The sun’s just about gone down now and the cooling colors of dusk are settling in through the shop windows. Jacob’s precariously perched on two legs of his chair with his own legs crossed at the heel on the counter top. He’s swaying gently, ever skillfully on the cusp of falling over when he hears you call his name.

“Finished already?” He practically leaps from the chair when you nod. There’s a roll of his neck and shoulders accompanied by a series of pops from stiff joints. Excellent. Take no offense, but I prefer my line of work to yours.”

“Let me guess. Too boring?”

“ _Dreadfully_.” He remarks and follows you into the fitting room.

Before you can even direct him to the table with his new clothing laid out, he takes long strides past and seizes the belt lying on top. It’s subtly engraved with the mark of the Brotherhood on a dusty-steel color buckle. Surprising, though, how it’s the first thing that catches his eye.

“Like it, do you?” You ask from the doorway.

“You have no _idea_.” He says eagerly, setting the belt aside to see what other goodies await him.

“Good. Take the time you need to get dressed while I close shop, would you?”

“With pleasure.” He says, peeling off his jacket. “Sure you don’t want to watch?”

You smile and give a soft shake of your head. The fires of your lust from before have long since been extinguished under the wave of exhaustion from work, but perhaps it wouldn’t be terrible to tease an ember or two. “Perhaps later, Mr. Frye.”

There’s a quirk of his eyebrows at your words. But the storefront needs your attention far more than some Assassin, handsome as he is. You take your leave just as his vest hits the ground.

Nothing up front is worse for wear. You take your time to set the heavy display racks aside, draw the curtains, lock the door, and put away the day’s earnings before returning to Jacob. You call ahead in the hopes that he isn’t indecent and move around the corner.

There’s a feeling fluttering in your heart and through your veins now. One that makes you wring your hands and clench them together. The sight of Jacob standing there, tall and sleek on the rounded podium, is almost too much. He looks to be admiring himself, turning to his sides and smiling appreciatively at his reflections.

The suit fits his form well even despite the muscles that unfurl and coil underneath it. Come to think of it, it’s the first time you’ve seen him in a suit quite this fancy. Normally, he’s not a fussy dresser — untucked shirt, untied shoes, stains galore. The man is not one to care terribly for the appearance of his clothes, and yet…

Here he is using the multi-mirrors’ reflection to see himself from various angles and looking very pleased with what he sees. The suit is dark with splashes of color here and there — not at all the typical suit of the kind in your store. No, this is a suit made for an _Assassin_. It has the usual necessities. Long pants, sturdy but thin enough to be tucked into boots without hassle or discomfort alongside a pair of leg straps for holding equipment. An overcoat with an untied, neatly ornate belt that Jacob has already come to admire. And within the shell of his coat, his new vest and waist belts lie on top of his dress shirt — all surprisingly well arranged and in place. And, naturally, a tucked away hood for concealing himself during daring escapes. Not that he’s likely to use it.

“Does it fit well?” Professionalism trumps the words you would prefer to say yet again.

“It feels incredible. Almost like I’m wearing nothing.” He’s still twisting and turning to fully appreciate his new suit, even tests a few flicks of his hidden blade to ensure no snags. Of course there wouldn’t be — you know the design of Assassin tools far too well to make that mistake.

“But…” He says, catching you off-guard during your revelry of his praise.

“But what?”

“But this isn’t one of your normal suits.”

“Noticed, did you?” You ask through a wry smile.

“Evie and I — we’ve had our suits made before, but _this_ …” He holds open the right breast of his coat, voice still stained with disbelief. “The difference is like a mule and a mustang.”

You scoff and smile at the compliment. He’s certainly been full of kind words today. “It was… ah, actually something I had made for Mr. Green — should he ever want to pursue field work. But that was years ago. The design _could_ be improved, but there’s hardly time for that now.”

“It looks better on me anyway,” he says with another experimental flick of his hidden blade.

That certainly is no exaggeration. Mr. Green is pleasant in his own ways, but Jacob… Your throat bobs as you swallow the knot that is slowly forming. Much as it pains you to compliment him, the words are slow and quiet, as though embarrassment cannot hear soft speech. “You… you look very charming, Jac— Mr. Frye.”

“Oh?” He asks, catching your eye in the mirror’s reflection before he turns to face you. Goodness, the real thing is _so_ much better. He takes a step down from the the podium, voice low and humming with intent. “That’s so sweet of you to say.”

His soft steps continue, so much quieter than the heavy thuds of those very same boots from this morning. There’s silent purpose in his gait now, a stance he is terribly familiar using when approaching unsuspecting targets, no doubt. Intention smolders low behind his gaze with a focus that makes your pulse quicken when you realize his attention is fully on you.

“And what other sweet things do you have for me?” He purrs as he leans in close, coin about his neck dangling. Those leather gloves are quick but gentle in spreading their warmth across your hips, guiding you closer. Close enough to gingerly bump into each other.

“I… what? I-I don’t have anything to— ” Your train of thought is entirely derailed at the feel of something long and firm digging insistently at your thigh. You cast your glance up to Jacob in blushing, speechless accusation.

“Hm?” He asks, automatically feigning innocence before he understands. And compounds your embarrassment with another grind of his hip and the hard object into you. “Oh, _that_? That’s just my kukri.”

His _what_?

The pressure on your thigh subsides and the soft sound of metal on leather fills your ears as he reveals a rather unwieldy looking blade, turning it gently to let it glint in the soft light.

“Kukri. Like it? Was a gift from ol’ Greenie himself.”

“Oh,” you say as he sheathes it once more. A new weapon for the Assassins? So much for knowing all their weapons — it isn’t one you have seen before. Shame there’s no specific place in Jacob’s new suit to holster it. But perhaps with a few modifications…

There’s little time to consider it further before he picks up where he left off.

He’s politely insistent on clouding your senses. The sight of those piercing hazel eyes and devilishly charming smile coupled with the the feel of his large hands, warm and insistent on your lower back just about does you in. But it’s the powerful smell him — of gunpowder, leather, and what _is_ that? Sandalwood? Cedar? — that has you biting your lip in conflict.

Getting involved with Assassins beyond a _very_ limited business standpoint will always be a bad idea. They’re trouble spelled out in blood with little else guiding them aside from their “creed.” And even that doesn’t always keep them in check. Despite this, despite knowing better, the fire within your core is rekindling. This is a losing battle.

His eyes dart down for just a moment to see your lip being toyed between your teeth. The sound he makes, a mix between a licentious chuckle and a longing groan, fractures what resistance you have left. You need completion, his taste on our tongue. A soft sigh escaping your lips is all the invitation he needs.

It’s strange at first. He’s so damned _gentle_. Not at all the rough and tumble man he’s made himself out to be. There has been one-sided flirting before with him promising sweaty nights between sheets and neighbors complaining of indecent, loud acts. But now he is so delicate with pressing his lips to yours, running his tongue along your lower lip before capturing it between his teeth. Soon, he’s tilting your chin up with gloved fingers for better access. Every passing second has him kissing more intently, hunger growing, before he finally breaks for air. The warm puffs of breath tickle your wet lips, and when you open your eyes you see that grin is still in place.

“Very sweet, indeed.” He comments before dipping his head for another taste.

“Hey, kids.”

You give a start in Jacob’s arms as Evie’s voice carries over to where the both of you are standing. The more sensible twin stands leaning in the doorway, arms folded.

The look on your face is a mix of surprise and embarrassment with just a hint of foiled lust. Jacob looks somewhat cross, but mostly unbothered as he slowly releases you from his warm embrace and stands at a less intimate distance.

“Sorry to break this up,” she says, crossing the room. “But Cinderella here needs to be going to the ball before she turns back into a toad.”

“That’s not even how the story goes, Evie. Though, it would explain why my evil sister is here.”

“If you mess up this mission, I’ll show you evil — oh.” Evie’s eyebrows raise in surprise and she considers Jacob more closely. “ _Jacob Frye_. You look damned good. They won’t even be able to tell there’s an ass in a room full of pigs.”

“Evie, come on!” Jacob pleads. “…rude.”

“You’ll recover.” She says, looking him over one last time before resting her sights on you. “I trust he didn’t give you any trouble, then?”

You stiffen automatically, now drawn into the quibbling between brother and sister, brushing a strand of hair aside. “The trouble lies with the work I’ll need to do to catch up on orders. But Jacob was kind enough to—”

“You didn’t give her advanced notice, did you?” Evie’s narrowed eyes have switched to her brother before glancing back to you. She sighs and softens her features. “We’ll see to it that you’re properly compensated for your efforts. My apologies for the undue stress.”

“Oh, come off it, Evie. She’s fine.” Jacob calls from the sets of mirrors, affixing his top hat in place to be the cherry topping that completes his outfit. Before his sister can reply, he turns, coat spinning grandly. “Wish me luck, ladies. I’m off.”

“Good luck.” You and Evie chime in unintentional unison; one voice edged with concern and the other with hurried displeasure. He takes his leave from the sewing room with an equal parts comedic and elegant bow that has you smiling and Evie rolling her eyes.

“…Jacob!” You call after him as he rounds the corner. He pops just his head back into view in wordless question, eyebrows arched and eyes inquisitive, lips slightly parted. “…be careful. Please?”

He gives a quick grin and chuckle, disappearing around the corridor as his words echo out. “I haven’t had enough of you, love. I’ll be back for more. Don’t you worry.”

The pleasurable tingling effect his words have on you has you wide-eyed and immobilized for longer than it should. It’s only after Evie’s hesitant hand on your shoulder that your core, throbbing in want, finally subsides.

“He’ll be fine. Don’t fret. My brother is a reckless arse, but he doesn’t have a death wish.” Evie says, releasing your shoulder and moving forward to the open doorway. “I have my own business to conduct this evening, but thank you for your help today. Also, you should see about getting a new lock for the front door. Frightfully easy to pick.”

And just as quickly as her brother, she leaves, too.

An unexpectedly long yawn is the first action you take. You should be cleaning up, locking up (again), and stocking up for whatever has been purchased for today. But the soreness in your fingers and dull ache in your back from being hunched over working on so many pieces of clothing in so little time is taking its toll. Sleeping at your workstation isn’t anything new to you, but damn. You weren’t sure if there had ever been a time you had fallen asleep so quickly.

Hopefully, Evie locked the door on her way out.

-✩-

A sound rouses you from your sleep, much to your displeasure. Sound and sunlight, the twin enemies of sleep are making themselves known now as you shift under your bedsheets. You lift your head from your pillows groggily and stare across your bedroom. Some time spent blinking the sleep from your eyes and willing you head to dispel its clouds finally begins to piece things together.

There’s a couple of things amiss at the moment: for one you are definitely not within your workshop. Still the same building, yes, but it seems during your slumber you made your way to your apartment above the shop. And this feeling against your body — these are definitely not your work clothes. A quick glance down confirms your nightshirt and undergarments are the only things clothing you.

 _That_ _’s strange_. Can’t quite recall pulling yourself up to bed or changing your clothes. No, you were far too tired last night and too —. Your attention snaps taut at a strange sound.

A faint background to your quiet confusion begins to become more apparent as the sleepiness falls from you. _Is that snoring_?

You rise quickly in bed and his slumbering frame comes into view. Rather inelegantly draped across your fainting couch. The gently snoring body of Jacob Frye. He’s sleeping soundly at the moment and, for once, that troublesome mouth of his isn’t flapping. Not exactly what you were expecting this morning, but not exactly unwelcome either. He’s here. Alive, safe, and sound.

Even through your exhausted sleep, your thoughts and dreams had been plagued with worry for the man and his assigned task. The profession of Assassin isn’t terribly unfamiliar to you. And the reality of one who holds that title simply disappearing at any time is not unfamiliar to you either. Either by called mission, death in the field, or need to go into hiding. …that’s the way it usually is with Assassins.

The feeling of being relieved at his return, however, is quickly trumped by the fact that this man is sleeping in your bedroom without your expressed permission.

“Mister! Frye!” You shout, voice edged in agitation.

He barely stirs save for his eyelids flitting open and that trouble-toting grin greeting you like the morning sun — equally unwelcome and equally inevitable. He groans out a languid stretch of his popping limbs — that fainting couch has not been kind to him. “Mmmmorning.”

“Yes, good morning,” you return the greeting with a displeased grimace. “Pleasantries aside, do you mind explaining why you’re here? I don’t recall permitting this.”

The larger part of him is curled under a blanket that does little to cover his extremities — that toe poking out of his sock is still visible in wiggling greeting. Still, he sets the blanket aside and sits up, pulling his arms above his head with a long yawning groan, some popping of joints, and a characteristically at-ease resettling of himself against the back of the fainting couch.

“Well, I didn’t ask.” He notes the rising ire in your eyes and quickly rephrases. “Wait—wait. I _would_ have asked, but you were so tired. And I wasn’t given much choice since it seems Evie decided to hijack the train to the _far_ _side_ of town. So let’s say my options were limited, but oddly preferable.”

As carefree and spirited as he seems, the man’s occupation _is_ fraught with danger and he looks as though he has not slept long. Some faint rings of tiredness bother at his eyes, but those colored hues of his remain bright and alert. Surely, anyone who didn’t spend as much time in his company as you do would not even notice. Even with that, he sparks a challenging smile. “You wouldn’t want me sleeping in the streets of London, would you?”

“…no, of course not.” You have to douse his fire as soon as his eyes spark to life. “ _But_ that doesn’t mean you can make a habit of this, Mr. Frye. And did you…” You had to peek once more beneath the blankets to be sure. “…did you _change_ my clothes?”

“What? Me?” Jacob bites back a yawn, distorting the start of his speech. “No, no, Evie brought you upstairs and changed you. She’d come back and found you sleeping like a log. Said you were so tired you kept calling her mum and that you didn’t want to go to school.”

Well, that’s endlessly embarrassing. At least Evie was the one who’d drawn you out of your clothes. Jacob’s infectious yawn catches you by surprise and soon your jaw strains and eyes water as your grogginess makes itself known.

“Although, I should think I would have been much gentler with you. Evie can be a bit hurried. Probably tossed you over her shoulder without a second thought. Should check for bruises, honestly.”

“Strangely, that sounds more down your alley, Mr. Frye.” From what you’ve seen of them, Jacob is _definitely_ the indelicate one of the sibling pair.

“Oh, trust me. The marks I’d leave wouldn’t be bruises.” His brows furrow in thought. “Well, they would only partially be bruises.”

“Mr. Frye…”

“Teethmarks, scratches, and hickeys. Suppose hickeys _are_ just bruises.”

“Mr. Fr— Jacob!” The thought of his mind flurried with sinful ideas of placing his mouth and hands on parts of your body causes your skin to flush hotly.

“Yes?” He asks, lazily looking up from his position on the couch. Legs extended fully and crossed at the heel on the floor, arms languidly stretched out along the back of the couch. My, how that lap of his looks inviting.

“I would thank you for not conjuring up such _images_ while in my bedroom.” The request comes plainly.

“Ah, would you prefer to do it in mine? Much more cramped. Bit of a shame, really. Unless you like tight spaces.”

Where your skin had been hot before, now it practically melts from your bones. It’s far too early and your defenses have had little time to rebuild from his last assault. “Mr. Frye. _Please_.”

“I’d please you forever and a day, dearie. You can hold me to that.”

“Mr. Frye, do you _ever_ cease this infernal — oh. Oh!”

The mission! In the ever-present pleasantries of Jacob’s personality, you had entirely forgotten about the mission he had been sent on. Though, from your slight outburst, he’s staring at you quizzically.

“Something catch your tongue?”

“Mr. Frye, the mission! How was it?”

“Oh. That.” From his flat tone, he sounds displeased. “Let’s just say that a certain Templar won’t be enjoying her favorite hors d’oeuvres any time soon. The last one she had gave her a nasty cough. And a frightful stomach ache. And then she died. Strangest thing, that.”

Relief floods your face and you press on for more details. “Everything went accordingly, then? No one noticed you?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no. _Plenty_ of people noticed me. That suit of yours had me as an unwilling belle of the ball.” He groans and leans his head back against the couch, covering his face with a hand. “The _endless_ questions from women and men!”

His face scrunches in mocking accents. “ _Good sir, wherever did you have this made? What is it made of? My, how it sheens!_ _”_ His head jerks up suddenly to give you an incredulous stare. “You know, I actually had one loony old broad grope me? Her tits may as well have been dragging across the floor and she ups and pinches my arse! By the end of the night, I just wanted to rip the goddamn thing off.”

Comical mental image aside, you give an empathetic pout. He sounds like he has been through a fair bit more than the average Assassin experiences for one night.

“But I couldn’t do that to you. Not after all that effort you poured into it. It’s sitting pretty over there.” He nods his head to the side and your gaze follows its lead. The suit is tucked neatly on one of your display figures in the corner, a little dirty from its adventure out and about, but still in fine condition.

“I _had_ hoped to surprise you with a celebration of sorts.” He says, jerking his head in the opposite direction. Your eyes rest on a large, empty bottle that probably held alcohol at one point. The infamous patience of Jacob Frye at work. “Something involving you helping me undress, then me undressing you while pouring wine on your skin only to lick it off, and _theeeen_ me ravaging you all night long. But you had other plans.” He shrugs. “Sleepy plans.”

“Is that so?” Exasperated, but your heart feeling light from his good-ish news, you fall back against your pillows and sigh.

“Oi, don’t get me wrong. We can still get going without wine. There’s a store ‘round the corner if you really want some — can be there and back in a flash.”

You chuckle and shake your head against the pillows, a grin refusing to leave your lips. “No, Mr. Frye. That won’t be necessary.” Before he can pipe up again, you cut him off. “And _no_ , Mr. Frye, that does not mean we will be continuing without the wine. On this or any other day.”

His frown is practically audible as he shifts in his seat. “Then how _will_ you spend your time today?”

“Some of us, Mr. Frye,” you begin. “Have work to do.”

You sit up with a start.

 ** _SHIT_**. What time is it?

“About half past noon.” Jacob says without needing your question to be spoken. “Day’s practically over. Should spend it here with me. Take the day off.”

Instead, you turn to your nightstand and find your alarm clock missing. Where on earth is it?

“Oh, that’s long gone. Started ringing at some ungodly hour this morning and I damn near shot it off the table. Didn’t disturb you one wink, though. You were out cold.” He’s sitting forward on the edge of the fainting couch now. “C’mon. Take the day off. You deserve it.”

“ _Jacob!_ ” There were several orders that needed filling today, suits to mend, appointment times that have been blown to pieces. You begin rummaging through your nightstand for your brush and comb to start making yourself presentable when a sound tears your attention away.

Jacob is standing next to your bed, his hand wrapping around your wrist to guide your busy hand away from its search.

When the hell did he get there? He is no small man and yet he managed to cross the room quickly _and_ silently. The source of that sound, though, didn’t come directly from Jacob. You cast your glance downward and view the culprit.

A coin purse heavy to bursting sits at the foot of your bed.

“Take the day off.” He suggests again in a soft, low tone tone that’s drizzled with honey and the promise of comfort and pleasure. Your gaze wanders from his hand on yours, up his arm, to finally rest on that warmly suggestive look on his face.

His warmth, however, is returned with a stern, cold look. You purse your lips and furrow your brow, doing your best to create a look of offense, even going so far to lock eyes with him and send that playful glance and smile of his wavering. “…you can’t pay me to fuck you, Jacob.”

“Wha — _no_! That’s not what—! It’s for the suit! For all that hard work you put into it!” He sputters in attempt to recover.

And for the first time ever, you have successfully flustered the immovable Jacob Frye.

His worried expression and speech changes to chuckling amusement when he sees your smile spreading across your lips. He rolls his tongue on the inside of his cheek, perhaps still a bit surprised you were able get him quite so effortlessly before looking you over with sinful intent. “Ohoho. _You._ You are trouble.”

There’s going to be consequences for this — there always are — but perhaps you should have a break. This feeling now of being able to just _be_ instead of worrying about something somewhere going wrong is intoxicating. Liberating. And here is Jacob Frye, arm extended and ready to pull you into the fullest extent of ‘liberation.’ “Maybe I am. What are are you going to do about it, Jacob?”

A low, pleasured moan comes from his throat and his hand grips yours tight. That’s not a sound you’ve ever heard him make before — and you’ve heard him make plenty. The effect is instant, and had his eyes not been closed he surely would have seen your jaw going slightly slack in sheer _want_. The wide-eyed look still on your face has him grinning when he finally recovers, seemingly able to return your teasing act in his own way. “I did say I love it when you say my name, didn’t I?”

“I… Well, I — ah, that is… Mmn.”

While your mind flounders for words, his hand wastes no time in gently massaging your wrist, working down to your palm and finally lacing his fingers with yours. Your resistance is fading as quickly as his warm touch is spreading across your skin. Not to mention, when was the last time you had a day off?

“I… _suppose_ work can wait a bit, Jac—”

There is barely time to breathe before he descends on you, lips hungry and searching for yours. Each kiss is hot and consuming, he is a man starved for your taste and his tongue will prove it to you. Captivating can’t even begin to describe the feeling of his mouth exploring your own. Lips parted, tongue laving across your lower lip in a bid for entrance. You acquiesce with a soft exhale that he drinks up fully with a lustful groan. The need building within him is punctuated by shuddering breaths and firm touches. His free hand cradles the base of your head delicately, though each kiss has his fingers shifting and locking in your hair with surprisingly fierce desire.

You pull away gently for a moment’s breath and catch a glimpse of his lips. Wet, full, and curling into that toothy grin of his. There’s no need to hide the shudder that runs through you, not anymore. In fact, he rewards you with the melody of a throaty chuckle before kissing your forehead.

“I... ahn… I need to a-aahh…” That hand gently massaging through your hair is devastatingly distracting and your eyes close to rid yourself of the sensory overload of both the sight of him and his alluring touch. Focus. Gather your thoughts. You bite your lip as his hand moves from your head to the nape of your neck, rubbing gentle circles the whole way. “…put a sign up on the st-storefront!”

He leans in to kiss your cheek and jaw as you speak, driving you to endless befuddlement as he descends even lower to capture a patch of skin between his lips to lick and nibble on. He _had_ promised hickeys…

“Jacob, please.” You protest softly as his hands begin to undo your nightshirt buttons.

“Oh, you know I have every intention to please you. Please you until you can’t see straight.” He’s undone half the buttons now, and while you have every intention of having him make good on that promise, you will need a more compelling reason to get him to tear away from this moment.

“Jacob,” you start, resting your hand on his. To your relief, he stops instantly. He may be an over-eager, caution-to-the-wind, reckless thrill-seeker, but he’s making himself out to be a responsive lover. “It would be unfortunate if someone were to interrupt us, yes? I wouldn’t want to have to stop for anything.”

He’s still for a moment.

Just a moment.

“That carries the implication that I’d stop ravaging you until either of us wanted to stop.” He breathes the words hot and low into your neck as his hands resume their work slowly, as though waiting to see if you offer any resistance.

Resisting is the last thing on your mind, your mind feeling practically paralyzed by the naughty thought he’s placed there. Thinking of it only has your hands grasping at his clothes to remove them as quickly as he removes your own. Imagining being tangled in him, pleasured beyond coherent thought and caught in the act by a confused customer. It burns your skin crimson from the foolish risk of it all. He really wouldn’t think twice about pleasuring you in front of someone else who’s stumbled in. And he’d _keep_ doing it until given the command to stop.

“That’s the ticket.” He purrs into your neck again as he momentarily releases your shirt to have you shrug his vest down his shoulders. As soon as it is removed, he is back on top of you, kissing hungrily as though he hasn’t been feasting on your taste all along. “You like that naughty idea, don’t you?”

Every word, every touch, every glimpse of him has you drowning in a sea of pleasure you do not wish to escape from. His head still buried in the crook of your neck, he plants gentle bites from your neck to your shoulder as you work off his shirt buttons. Your lack of vocal response, though, will earn you pleasurable trouble.

“Tell me, love. Did. You. Like. It?” Each word is punctuated by a successively harder bite with a warm lap of his tongue to ease the beginning throbs of pain.

You nod softly. He bites _harder_. You correct yourself with gasping moan. “Y-yes! I did — I do! I like it.”

“Good.” He says between gentle bites, his tongue still laving along your tender skin. “Nothing to worry about anyway. Doors are all locked. Sign’s up.” He says with another breathy groan in tremendous effort to pull himself away from you for even a second. “No one, not even my sister _herself_ , is getting in this building without breaking something down.”

The man certainly seems capable of forward thinking now of all times, but you’re not exactly disappointed. The playful teasing, the massages, his damned _mouth_ , everything about him has you craving more. And the feeling, it seems, is mirrored in the depths of his eyes. Still beneath him, hair splayed against the sheets in a messy fan, you’ve almost worked off all the buttons, but goddamn they are infuriating. Who the hell made this shirt?

You pause a moment, embarrassment flushing your cheeks along with your lust. Oh, that’s right. _You_ made this shirt.

“Goodness.” He says, just under his breath and barely audible. You look up from his shirt buttons as he towers over you, resting knelt with hands on either side of you. With the last button undone, your hands are free to enjoy the pleasure of skirting your fingertips along his taut stomach in a quiet bid for continued performance. You were expecting him to finish off your nightshirt that’s bothersome in keeping your skin from contacting his. Instead, he shakes his head gently and his eyes rake you from head to toe and back again, slow and heated enough to blaze a blushing trail wherever his eyes wander. “You look _sinfully_ delicious right now. I’m just savoring this moment before I ravish you _completely_.”

Even more fuel for the fire burning inside you. His dirty talk, that wicked body, and finally being able to see if those torrid promises he’s made in the past are something he can deliver. Your hands grip his open collar in fervent need. And where you had expected him to lower himself onto you, he remains. There’s a hurt, confused look on your face and you tug again. Does he not want to kiss?

“You, my dear, sold me a shirt with the promise that it is sturdy.” He says, hands still indenting the mattress as he holds his weight up and above you. “So, why don’t you show me? C’mon, pull yourself up.”

This _cheeky_ bastard… There’s that grin of his, again. Even in the bedroom he’s out to tease you!

You accept his challenge in wordless delight and pull yourself up by the fabric. It strains, but it holds as your upper back lifts and you can crane your neck just enough to meet him eye to eye. You give a questioning raise of your brow and playfully challenging incline of your head. “If you wish to play games, we may play… But I was rather hoping you would make this day off worth it.”

“ _Oh!_ Worth it, now?”

You nod your answer. “You’ve been a lot of talk, Mr. Frye. Or is that the only thing you can do with your mouth?”

“My mouth?” He asks in playful tones of mock offense and you nod your answer again. “Dear girl, you’ve not _seen_ what I can do with this mouth.”

A bit of movement interrupts your giggling response as he, in lowered push-up fashion, descends your still-clinging body back down to the bed. This time with his body pressed firmly atop you. The warmth is nothing short of bliss, unexpectedly hot and pulsing. You allow yourself to close your eyes and arch your back toward him, a pleasured moan on your lips. He’s fast to steal the breath from you though. What whispers and groans of encouragement you may have had for him, he completely devours in a toothy kiss.

And, my, does he know how to use his mouth.

The kisses now aren’t quite like the ones he’s blessed you with before. No, these are far _hungrier_. More probing tongue and biting teeth. In the midst of your oral embrace, he guides his hand to your hip, trailing up the bare expanse of your stomach to the valley of your breasts. You sigh your approval, your longing, into the kiss and his hand is too happy to be your undoing.

Or it would at least if it were not making its lazy descent back to your stomach.

For a time, his mouth has your mind plenty preoccupied, but you soon notice the pattern in his trail. Back and forth with the barest caresses and frustratingly slow; he’s ignoring your breasts. The teasing can only go on for so long and regrettably you break the kiss with a small, wet sound.

“Won’t you touch me, Jacob?” The heady breath of your plea comes out soft, almost begging, and you guide his hand toward the straining peaks of your nipples. But his hand does not follow. No, it does not even stray from the path it has slowly been tracing.

Up and down. Up and down. Causing your stomach to do flips in anticipation for something more, something dirty.

“But, _love_ , you don’t want my hands.” Is his reply and you question him just a moment before his intention is made clear. He shifts himself closer to your ear, and the promise — while delectably pleasurable — is almost equally frightening. “No, love, just lips and teeth and tongue on your skin this day.”

The half-dressed Assassin makes his descent, as effortlessly calculated as though he’d fantasized it a thousand times, and takes your left nipple into his mouth. His touch is fire that has you both groaning at the contact, dizzy with desire, and your hands reach out to grasp a part of him to steady yourself. Your right hand finds its purpose in gently tousling his hair while your left traces down your side to rid yourself of your undergarments.

“Mmmnn, mon’t boo uht.” He says with his mouth full, teeth latching onto your sensitive flesh.

“Wha-what did you sa — ahh!” Those lips and tongue so firmly intent on pleasuring you are tugging gently at your skin, building suction and undulating against you until a pop of suction releases your nipple. Your torturous lover licks his lips and stares down at you as he issues his throaty command.

“ _I said:_ don’t do it. No hands. Not even yours, missy.” And as though the issue were said and done, he descends to your other breast to give it the attention it has patiently been awaiting.

 _Really?_ The one time you get extra cheeky with the man and he makes you pay for it in spades. But for the pleasure he’s promised… this seems like a more than fair trade. You tangle both of your hands in his hair, massaging his scalp in encouragement as he laves your skin in exploring suckles and licks. But as pleased as he is with finally being able to bury himself in your breasts, his desire leads him to pursue… other treasures.

He leaves your peaks wet and exposed to the cool air to pebble and harden as they do.

The grip you have on his hair falters as he rises briefly to discard his open shirt and at last you can ogle him as freely as you like. There are those same scars you admired not hours before — not to mention that simply exquisite tattoo — exposed and painfully close enough to touch. But, naturally, his hand stops your exploration before it begins.

He brings your hands to his lips, kissing along your knuckles and fingertips, even taking a digit into his mouth before releasing you. “Naughty thing. You can touch hair and that’s it.”

You purse your lip in frustration at this game he’s concocted, but you’ve only yourself to blame for giving him the idea. “Well, chest hair _is_ hair, isn’t it?”

That scarred brow raises in response to your witty quip. “Clever thing, aren’t you? _Head_ hair. That’s it.”

Further pouting does little to persuade him. No, it only seems to worsen the pleasured but slow treatment you’re given. After a bit, it sinks in — you’re going to have to follow the rules of this game in order to get what your body is so desperately craving. The prize, after all, may well be worth it.

Jacob notes your willingness to follow instruction after he spends far too long stripping your clothes from you. First, your open nightshirt and then your undergarments as he litters kisses down your stomach and down the apex of your thighs — and the entire time you’ve kept your hands either tangled in his hair or resting at your sides in vexation. The view greeting him there is nothing other than he could expect after torturing you for so long — you’ve been wet and wanting for him longer than you can recall. But he drinks it in, taking his time to watch you, your body, as he lies between your legs.

Body nearly trembling in lusty anticipation, you’re watching him — the savior you need to administer the pleasure only he can provide — with almost as much reverence as he has for you.

His gaze rolls up to catch your own. “This is a sight I could never grow tired of, you know.”

The heated flush traveling across your cheeks is fully trumped by the surge of pleasure that has your back arching unexpectedly. He chuckles his amusement, seemingly pleased that even now — with just words — he has you fully entranced, willing, and eager for his touch. The softest breath and barest touch he uses to ease along your thighs and wet folds is clouding your mind from coherent though. The descent into lustful madness is beginning to creep upon you and for a faint glimmer of a moment you think he may finally pull you out of your drowning depths.

“Yes, I could get very accustomed to seeing you squirm beneath me.” He murmurs casually into your thigh, leaving a wet kiss and soft bite. Slowly, he lifts your opposite thigh up and over his shoulder for more room to play. His hands tuck themselves under your rear to tilt you for perfect access. For a time, he doesn’t continue his task — doesn’t touch you further either.

“Is that a request?” You ask. Your trembling legs belie the calm facade you try to display.

“I’d be a fool not to try.” He says with some small amount of mischief in his tone. He’s poised just above your slit now, simply waiting. Almost toying with you. You open your mouth to speak. That same instant, he rolls his wide, long tongue in a hot trail from the bottom of your opening to the top of your mound. The sounds that come out of your mouth at that moment cannot, in any capacity, be considered words.

Coherent speech is going to be what you’re least capable of when his hot mouth is encircling your wet lips. The first suckling bite is torture, but the second one has your fingers fisting in his hair. Those squeaking yelps on your lips pull gently vibrating chuckles from him and he’s quick to do it all over again. Each pass of his tongue is hot, slick, and hungry to lap up all you have for him. At first, he’s content with simply tasting your outer folds, but his lust and greed grow in tandem and soon he’s gently spreading you open for deeper licks and sucks. He keeps going this way, each new position, new place to make tremble has your words lost to harsh moans and quick swallows.

Surely, he’s sapping your capabilities of speech with every successive touch.

It takes no small effort to keep your hips still — not that you can move much with his strong, calloused hands holding you firmly in place. It’s only when he finally releases you with an audible suck that your hips stop wriggling in his grip. The throbbing between your thighs longs for him to return, but the sight of him now has your body fighting itself to lay claim to all of him at once. That tongue of his is darting across his mouth from one corner to the other, savoring your proof of arousal.

“…you…you are torture, Jacob.” You say at last.

“Yes,” he says with an impish smile. “I _did_ say your vision would be crossed before I’m through.”

He descends again, this time focused on bringing your clit into a world of promised pleasure. Where the strained symphony of your moans had stopped, your conductor has returned to have your body singing once more. The man is relentless in his hunger to taste every inch of you. As with every move he makes, there is motive and purpose. At moments where he feels you are about to crest over, he releases his oral hold on you. And instead, gives your inner thighs some affectionate kisses and bites until either your unrelenting grip spurs him on or he thinks you’ve settled down enough to enjoy more. He seems particularly fond of keeping you this way: writhing and barely able to say anything besides his name and pleas for more.

The man is torture on your senses and soon you feel yourself building to unstoppable height, ankle digging into his back, hands pulling hair, and hips straining tight. You’d give anything to keep his mouth on you, anything to keep him from pulling away _again_. Those swipes of his tongue and soft nips of his teeth have you intoxicated beyond reason and perhaps with your nails digging somewhat _too_ eagerly into his scalp, he sees fit to allow you a pleasured finish. 

He releases a moment to gulp down new air in spite of your anguished cry. He’s quick to make up for it and lavishes your clit with much needed pressure from his thumb and forefinger. The pricking of his stubble on your thigh has you prying your eyes open to see him looking back with fevered appreciation. He practically purrs against your skin. “You’re _close_. Show me, love. Let me feel it.”

You nod your need and his spoken command is the strike that sets off the fuse to your inevitable end. He focuses his gaze on you as his clever hands gently massage your clit with increasing speed. The fingernails on his scalp, your heel digging painfully in his back, and the nearly suffocating proximity of his mouth on your folds and oversensitive bud do not distract him from his task. Soon, the rocking of your needy hips comes to a steady pitch and trembling height. You clench your eyes, knowing he’s watching, waiting with unparalleled desire for your sweet release on his tongue.

It comes. Sooner than you’d like. _Louder_ than you’d like. And it all but knocks the breath from you.

He murmurs appreciation along your folds as he gently settles your tired lower half onto the bed. The thrumming aftershocks of pleasure still linger long after his mouth moves away — your thighs rub slowly in futile need to restore what once was. The initial fire has been washed away in ebbing release, but more embers linger still, quickly rebuilding into an intense heat.

He sits up on his elbows with no small look of satisfaction, cleaning his thumb and forefingers with his tongue. “I know, I know,” he purrs between licks. “Easy, we’re just getting started.”

The promise of pleasure carries across the air almost like a grim warning. If there’s more to be had, you will feast until full. But… just how much is he offering? With a teasing entry like that, though, you can hardly rest now. “I… I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re planning.”

That lazy smile on his lips trails up your body leaving behind a half dozen kisses until he presses himself atop you. It’s the heat of his chest you notice first — he’s as hot as a fireplace and every bit as inviting. But it’s the… _pressure_ against your hip that you notice next. The appreciation on your face does not go unnoticed, and he kisses the bridge of your nose with the scent of your release present. You kiss back eagerly once, twice, and decline into the inevitable.

“Your _kukri_ seems happy to see me?” You ask in a tired, giggling tease and trail your hands to his belt for quick removal.

“Oh, that’s no kukri. Also, _haaands_.” He says firmly and waits for you to reign back in your wandering fingers. There’s that request again. He seems rather insistent on this, on not being touched and not touching you with his hands. It was a fun tease at first, but the longing to feel and explore him is growing too heavy to bear. Through your own disappointed look or his own plans, he kisses your nose once more. “Patience, almost there.”

Easy enough for him to say.

He’s gotten to explore your body all he’s liked with his mouth and eyes while you have yet to even see him fully unclothed! There’s a soft mewl from you as he rolls the bulk of his weight to lie flat on his back. With wicked intention rising, he ghosts his hand across his nicked and scarred chest, down his stomach. The tease is short-lived though as he finally makes move to fully disrobe.

And now here’s a chance to see him in what’s sure to be fully nude glory. If there’s a smile on your lips, you make no move to hide it, no attempt to simmer this bubbling excitement. For all of his promises and pleasured touches, you have wicked intention to repay him in kind. For all of his torturous touches as well, you plan to have him squirming and needy and breathless and begging. But first, a bit of lip-biting anticipation at seeing this gorgeous man laid fully bare.

He unties his belt with little fuss, hooks his fingers into his trousers, and lifts his rear off the bed. And then stops.

“You’re _sure_ you want this?” He asks with the waist of his pants just barely hiding his patch of pubic hair.

“Jacob, I will use your own blade to cut your pants off if you do not remove them _this instant_.”

His laughter echoes across your bedroom walls, and he _finally_ rolls his pants fully down his hips and pools them onto the floor.

There are several ways to describe Jacob. Until today, most descriptions you had for him didn’t border on gentle, kind, and affectionate. Until today, they bordered mostly on persistent, short-sighted, and occasionally charming. Until today, you’d not experienced the fully kindled pleasure of having him in your bed. But today, in a mix of trust and lust, he’s shown you parts of him you’d never dared dreamed could be so beautiful.

The way your eyes rove his body now may not be the same way he looked at you when he first laid between your thighs, but you have the feeling it’s _damned_ close.

The scars on his body, as you imagined, trail further down his torso to his thighs and legs — some even crisscross his feet. He’s been banged up more than his fair share of times and has come out looking absolutely gorgeous on top of it all. The path of hair leading down his chest to his groin is teasing enough on its own — really, your fingers have been denied the pleasure for too long. But it’s his main asset on display now that is truly breathtaking — a respectable length that curves into a crown that’s leaking its excitement.

His cock, most notably, _is thick_.

Especially this close, it is easy to see the weight of it bobbing against his stomach. His member, seemingly no exception to the rest of him, will be a lot to handle.

Jacob runs his hand through his hair almost nervously, exposing his chest as he inhales deeply. “Something wrong?”

It takes perhaps a full second to realize you haven’t said anything to him, no praises of how he looks and aside from a wild-eyed excited stare, no real indication of just how badly you plan to pleasure him until his senses grow numb.

“That… is not a kukri.” The admission is plain. No, that is certainly _not_ a kukri.

“You’re very astute.” He pulls himself up to a sitting position against the headboard, cock bobbing heavily at full attention. He laughs softly, welcoming you to straddle his lap in a embrace punctuated with collarbone kisses and arms encircling your waist. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

“You laugh, but… Jacob, that’s…” You attempt to make light of it, even as you feel his cock throbbing between your bodies against your thigh. His size isn’t a _problem_ per se, but it is, among other things, surprising. You clear your throat and try again. “You are… uh, very _lucky_ , Jacob Frye.”

“Yes, I’ve been having a lucky streak lately.” Reverence is more in his tone than anything else as he gently moves some hair from your vision and tucks it behind your ear. It takes a second, but you catch his implication and cannot stop the embarrassed smile on your lips. Before you can return his kindness, he speaks, holding you gently against his chest. The soft rise and fall of his warm torso is distracting, but you strain to listen to what he has to say. “We _can_ stop. We don’t have to—”

“Who said anything about stopping?” You interrupt with slight panic on your features, rising quickly from his hold. No, stopping is the _last_ thing on your mind.

He stares on somewhat bewildered, as if he were fully expecting your declination. “You _want_ to keep going, then?”

“I believe I can still see straight, Jacob. You wouldn’t leave my bedroom breaking a promise, would you?” What faintest hint of a worried glint was in his eyes now fully dissipates into bubbling arousal. His size looks… challenging to a point, but you are by no means scared off or disinterested. Quite the opposite in fact. This is your chance to return some of these lovingly kind moments he’s been lavishing onto you. “I _don_ _’t_ think you’re quite ready, though.”

He gives a soft, disbelieving chuckle at the accusation and goes so far to grind his cock deliciously into your thigh. “I’m ready. _Trust me_.” His hands make for a smooth caress of your hips, but you regrettably move out of his touch.

Now is the time for _vengeance._

“Afraid you’re not ready just yet, Jacob Frye.” You say, edging back on your knees and hands, lying back until your prize is standing before you in rigid declaration of arousal. Despite those years of Assassin training steeling his nerves, his eyes widen ever so slightly at the thrill of what is soon to take place. Nothing in his training covered tasks like these, you’re sure. “But you will be soon.”

It’s the first lick that’s the most explosive. Jacob’s hips jolt forward and his leaking cock bumps against your lips and the tip of your nose. He’s quick to apologize against his straining erection, but you’ve little interest in hearing his words with such a handsome part of him waiting to be explored. The sounds of him apologizing are replaced by choked gasps and groans. His hips wriggle just slightly, but his cock remains still — as it should with his dripping cockhead now captured in your mouth between lips and tongue. If he’s so eager to thrust his cock into a willing hole, you will gladly bring him to satisfaction.

But he could use some slicking up first.

He tosses his head back against the headboard and after the groans subside, the sound of his short nails raking against your blankets to crumble them in his fists fills your ears. Seeing him this way is a treat. Matter of fact, he may come undone under your touch far quicker than you intend at this rate. There’s something delicious and wicked making him moan and shiver like this — so willing to lose full function of his body at the mere presence of your mouth.

You release his tip with a wet pop — not terribly unlike he’d done to you a short time before — and lick over your lips to get them supple and prepared for what is to come. His thick cock rocks back against his stomach upon release and his growl with heavy undertones of disappointment is simply _heavenly_.

“Are you all right, Jacob?” You ask innocently.

His head remains tilted back with soft, struggling breaths as his answer. Seems his words have left him. You’ll need another way to extract them.

“Mmm. Maybe I should stop.” Before the sentence can end, one of those same hands shoots up to lock in your hair, his head still lolling back in groaning need. And were it not for the thickly pulsing veins of his needy cock to distract you, you’d have winced at the near-painful grip in your hair. Truly, he’s fighting every nerve ending in his body to keep from thrusting overeagerly into your mouth. But what’s the fun in simply pleasuring him?

“Something to say…” You give a swirling lick of his head _just_ to see his face contort like that once more. “…Mr. Frye?”

The chest that has been taking in such steady breaths until now is looking much more ragged in its shuddering, gasping breaths to keep airflow coming. Yes, Jacob’s looking every bit distressed from toetip to head. And it’s marvelous. Watching his throat bob and mouth open in wracked cries at the gentlest touch. It’s almost too much that this handsome man is yours to make fall apart. He growls out his lust, words catching in his dry throat. “...nggh, don’t stop.”

“I could continue, Mr. Frye, but…” Your voice trails and you attempt to straighten your head against the vice-like hold his hand has in your hair. His head shoots back up in wide-eyed astonishment, releasing tendrils of your hair to instead cup the base of your skull. Apparently, he’d failed to realize he was even holding you.

“Mmgh...sorry. You don’t know what you’re _doing_ to me right now.” He strains the words out and immediately begins a pleasant stroking and rubbing of his fingers in places where pain lingers. Sweet as the gesture is, his overwhelming need drowns out his subtlety — those muscled hips of his roll forward, cock clouding your vision in a not-so-polite implication to continue.

“You don’t know what I’ll be doing to you _later,_ ” you say with hints of plans of much more to come. Much _worse_ to come. But how you’d love to capture this moment of him. Starry-eyed with lust and barely able to catch his breath or hold himself still. It’s a tremendously adorable side of Jacob you weren’t even aware you hungered for until now. You aim to offer some comfort after relentless teasing that has him both pent-up and perhaps frightened to see more.

A gentle tucking of hair behind your head and you descend against his skin to take in what has been barred from you all day. He stares on curiously as you run your fingers along the coiled muscles of his thighs — almost as lustfully tense as his cock. You run your tongue along him from base to tip, savoring the sticky wetness of his head before trailing back down. Taking care of him is partly for his own satisfaction, but just as much for your own pleasure.

With his cock now so close and so, well… _visibly thick_ , you think you’ll prefer to get him nicely lubricated. The added bonus of it being torture for him is just a side perk, really. Still, feeling his thighs flex and relax when you touch him just so has your heart fluttering. His skin is so responsive to your touch — a stroke of his stomach or thighs sends him reeling. Stroking or licking his cock has him all but thrusting off the bed.

You glance up to see him already watching you carefully and full of lusting hope. There’s a silent request is on his lips, unmoving and unheard. You kiss the wet head of his cock once more before taking his length into both of your hands. Both are needed for this as the thickness of his length has your thumb and middle digit just barely unable to touch when wrapped around his thickest part.

He exhales his pleasure hard through his nose, still intently watching as you trail saliva down his cock. His stomach flexes and his member lurches at the erotic sight — clearly someone’s impatient. But you reward him with gentle stroking all the same, one hand atop the other until the slickness of the moment starts making the most deliciously obscene sounds.

His head cranes back and his hips roll forward into your hand. _Yes,_ he’s certainly impatient to fuck. But you reward his growing need with more licks and swirls on his leaking tip. Perhaps another day, another time, you can try to fit more of him into your mouth, but he seems content with the slick warmth of your steadily pumping hands. Perhaps _too_ content.

“Jacob.” You say gently and his head tilts in response, his hips still rolling into your touch. There’s a knowing smile on your mouth as you sit up from your knees, release his length and watch Jacob’s nostrils flare in his realization. “I _think_ you’re ready now.”

“Yes.” He responds in a comfortably warm tone. The hairs of his arms tickle just slightly at your backside as he wraps his arms about you to pull you in. It’s a loving embrace full of affectionate kisses and bites to your breasts, collarbone, neck, and chin as he positions you above his just slightly intimidating member. Your hands tangle in his hair for wordless encouragement and also to distract yourself from what is sure to be a bumpy ride. The breath along the nape of your neck is patchy, punctuated by suckling bites of skin. “Yes, I’m ready, but _you_ are not.”

Your heart sinks with worry that he, too, is still worried to hurt you.

His hands move faster than your lips, though, and in an instant he’s resumed his position as king of this teasing game between the two of you. Those thick, skillful fingers have trailed themselves between your legs, faster and lighter than you could detect, before delving his middle digit deep inside your waiting folds. Your surprised cry has him smiling into your neck, and then he kisses up to your lips for more. “ _Yesss_ ,” he hisses between kisses. “Make that noise for me, love. I’ll have you hoarse before the day’s end.”

It’s hard not to cry out or writhe in his lap with a second digit working in devious partnership with the first to scissor you wide and prepare your entrance for the kind of pleasure only Jacob can provide. Instead, you latch onto his lips, groaning and breathy for more of his touch. He responds with a third probing finger stretching you further.

“Ja— _Jacob_!” You shudder out his name and dig your nails into the backs of his arms. He still has your rear supported on a forearm to keep you upright and perfect for exploring even if your knees should give out. With as much wriggling and thrusting against his hands as you’re doing, that does not seem to be a problem. He repeats himself for some time in a dizzying pattern that has your head fogged in lusting mist. Breath-taking kisses into playful bites and licks while going between stretching you to what you can handle, to using a single finger to sooth what discomfort may come from the stretching. The entire time you’re a more than willing seeker of his touch, arching your hips and thrusting against him in time. You do take your time to pump his swelling arousal with a slick hand — what torture you suffer, you suffer together.

All too soon, though, it isn’t enough.

“Jacob, _please_.” You beg. Your hips have finally gone out through his ceaseless pleasuring and your hand is becoming tired and all too familiar with his cock. There are other parts of you that wish to know him so intimately — parts of you that need him _now._ He nods, seemingly as devoid of words as you are — all that remains is a desire to pleasure and be pleasured fully.

He lifts you up above his cock and uses his slick hand to rub himself one last time for gentle entry. You’ll need all you can get, you think, but have waning patience to prepare any longer. The first press of the hot tip has you both half-sighing, half-moaning in sheer delight at a teasing dance finally coming to its end. With one forearm still supporting you, he moves his free hand to cup your chin and tilt you close for better access. It’s sweet, tender, and a calculated task in keeping you distracted from the throbbing thickness slowly penetrating. And it is quite slow. With Jacob holding you up, you are descending only as fast as he allows. It seems he’s still focused on doing as this inch by inch.

Which is nothing less than completely frustrating.

Your body is humming for him from head to toe, your pussy most of all. And with him only perhaps half-way inside with more left to take in…

“Jacob,” you gasp, turning your head briefly from his kiss. “Did you hear that?”

Years of Assassin know-how and soon-to-be satiated lust clash visibly in his features. He doesn’t want to stop anything he’s doing to listen, but he puts aside his grimace and turns to the direction you’re looking for an assessment of danger. Silence continues a moment, but he keeps listening, eyes and ears out to determine and destroy any threat that should ruin this moment. And only silence returns. Poor sod doesn’t know what he’s in for. “I don’t hear anythi—!”

Mid-sentence, seeking mutual pleasure, you push yourself fully onto Jacob’s thigh length. The sudden feeling of being filled with a madly throbbing cock is exquisite, but that satisfaction is entirely dwarfed by the sound that you cause Jacob to make. Partially surprised, fully pleasured, heart singing at finding someone who can pull one over on him not once, but _twice_ in one day. The man’s face is contorted in wincing overstimulation. Why not add insult to injury by grinding into him, taking his full length, and adding more to the string of half-swallowed groans and lusting gasps?

“That, dear Jacob. I was wondering if you heard _that._ ” His grip is shaky, very shaky, when both his hands rest on either side of your hips. For the moment, his hips are still besides the occasional flexing to will himself still, but his teeth are at work on your ear and soon work together with his tongue to have you making your own gasps and moans.

“You are… _such_ trouble.” He gently breathes into your ear as you lift yourself from his cock only to seat yourself fully.

“You’d have me any other way?” You use one hand to brace yourself against the headboard as you swirl and thrust your hips against him, wet sounds of pleasured bodies connecting time and time again.

“I’d have you _many_ ways,” he says with hands firm on your hips, guiding you but mostly allowing you your own pace to get comfortable. That said, he has his own ways of getting his revenge. That clever mind of his is always at work. “Mmn, inside your shop to start. On your back on the counter. Your customers won’t like that.”

You give a lilting chuckle at the notion. _No_ , no they would not.

“On my train, getting plowed something wicked against the wall or trying to stay balanced on your hands and knees — it’s a bit different on the tracks.” His teeth and tongue leave your ear and he leans back against the headboard fully, eyes wandering down to where your bodies meet over and over. He bites his lip, clearly _liking_ what he sees. The hardened grip on your hips only confirms that. “Maybe I’ll take you to the Royal Palace. Have you all done up like a present and unwrap you in a side room.”

My, that mind of his is absolutely _filthy_.

You’re about to respond when quite suddenly, he withdraw his cock to its head and glides quickly inside to fill the emptiness left behind. The headboard creaks from how hard you pull on it and you’re quite sure the trail of clawmarks down his chest won’t be going away soon. That smile though, that smile at giving you a taste of your own kinky medicine, is what does you in.

“Judging by that absolutely _filthy_ sound, I’d say it wouldn’t be long before we would be caught, hm? The Palace might be out.” He continues watching and thrusting his hips in a slow, gentle rhythm as though you hadn’t just been overstimulated out of your mind. Very well. If he wants to have the last tease, you are happy to give it to him. The fire in your core is growing to an unbearable heat and too long now you’ve been ready, so ready, to feel indescribably good together with him.

You gently cup his face and kiss the corners of his mouth, melt away that cocksure smirk until he’s as kissably hazy-eyed as you are. “Please, Jacob. I need you.”

The storm of lust behind his eyes rolls in fully at that moment. He nods and adjusts his position. Until now, hes been sitting with you on his lap and his legs outstretched. He picks you up, still fully seated on his cock, and tucks his legs under him for better leverage. The feeling of him resettling his length inside you has you shivering in his grasp, but once you’re in position, the steady rock of his hips as you feeling so right.

You chew your lip to bite back a happy sigh, allowing yourself the pleasure of rolling your eyes closed and simply concentrating on the _feeling_ of his thickness teasing at your walls, of thrusting into you over and over in ages-old stimulation. There’s an expletive or two that falls from your lips when he decides to change angles or his pacing. Each new thrill, new bit of pleasure he’s eager to give you is met with needy scratches across his chest and back. How is it possible that even when he is buried to his hilt within you, your body craves and pulls at him for more?

The entire time, he works to pick up each bit of your telltale pleasures. Those trained eyes hone in on every little twitch of bliss, ears listen to every warbling cry, and the vault of his mind greedily locks these vivid memories away. No doubt, he will call on these visions of you again when he is alone and lusting for your company.

He takes steps further, though, and looks to orchestrate your movements, to be the one who makes you sing instead of simply the recipient of your beautiful song. The thick pad of his thumb swirls unexpectedly down the front of your mound. You’re not quite sure when he slithered a hand between you, but you welcome the desire he has for your mutual pleasure. You reward him with some of your own thrusts and grinds, going to far to clench your muscles along the length of his cock with every outstroke.

He groans, his hips jutting in uneven rhythm from your overwhelming clenching. Soon, his hand leaves your wet mound. “D—…do it for me.” He chokes out finally as the blunt nails of both hands dig in to the flesh of your hips. _He_ _’s close_.

It’s the first time you consider touching yourself in front of anyone. And the kink of it is _electric_. Jacob’s heavy breaths and rapid thrusts increase when he sees you shyly rubbing your fingers against yourself to add further stimulation to being bounced on his cock. Embarrassment soon melts away to heated lust and you stroke and rub at your pleasure center faster, building tempo with Jacob’s grinds.

You’re first to break out a bitten back groan that devolves into a series of whimpers as each relentless thrust through your orgasm refuses to give you peace, breaking down walls of resistance until you fully voice your satisfaction. And, put simply, it drives Jacob wild.

You can practically feel his heart swelling to bursting. So gloriously lost is he in seeking his pleasure, his fulfillment in using your body. And you’re all too happy to allow him. Each thrust, every jut of his hips is another swig of intoxication, another shot of addiction from each other that neither of you will tire of. You kiss and stroke the top of his head and watch his face contort as he gets closer and closer still to the edge of finishing, of completion. The powerful strokes of his hips become more ragged, weary with unbridled lust until he releases a shuddering groan.

The pressure on your hips from his hands and his groin is almost unbearable as he snaps his hips once, twice until smaller throbs wrack through his body in much-needed release.

His breath is hard, _tired_ , and rings in both of your ears. His face is still buried in your breasts the first time you call his name. By the second time, he’s planting soft kisses to blossom across your neck, over your shoulders. You stroke his hair as you call his name a third time, and this time, hazel eyes tired but ever attentive, he looks to you.

And smiles.

All this time, you were avoiding being in trouble with him, but you’d been in the thick of it with him all along. Long before this all happened. Before he began to follow you about so often, before the first time he came to your shop. Fates be damned, but you were in trouble with the man the day you met. And now, with those eyes looking upon you like something so precious and dear, you are _really, really_ in trouble.

It wasn’t supposed to be quite like this or someone quite like him.

Not someone like him, dangerous and unpredictable.

But _someone like him_ , sweeter and more considerate than anyone you’ve ever known.

Recklessly brave and foolishly clever and…

You kiss him, tossing yourself into the troubling sea of Jacob Frye.

It’s a soft, almost chaste, kiss that’s barely the brushing of your lips on his. But with your hands holding his cheeks, you kiss him as he guides you gently onto your back, wanting to leave each other’s warmth for nothing. The familiar thickness of his cock slips free as he shifts, adjusting himself to the side to ensure mutual comfort. There’s some wetness you can tell, but have no intention of paying it any mind with Jacob lying so comfortably atop you. There’s a content smile on his lips as he half-lays with you, seemingly unable to get enough of an aerial view. His free hand gently tangles with yours near your side as the two of you regain your breath, and come down from your high.

He raises the knuckles of your hand to his mouth, kissing over the bare skin. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You run a hand through his hair and wipe some of the sweaty strands back from his brow. “No, you were incredible, Jacob.” You chuckle. “But… I’m _definitely_ going to be sore tomorrow.”

Not that you mind. Carrying on the next day with a reminder of having been so gloriously fucked will be less of a chore and more of a pleasantly aching memory.

Jacob, on the other hand, is planting apologetic kisses on your chest, up to your neck, forehead, and finally your lips. “I may have taken things _slightly_ out of hand.”

“Mmmn… Nope.” You reply while still lazily curling your fingers in his hair. Your other free hand toys idly with the coin around his neck, flicking it gently back and forth in pendulum swing. “You took it _just_ where I wanted, Jacob.”

He half-laughs, half-scoffs at the compliment. “Lucky day, indeed.”

You nod, settling yourself to be tucked beside and under him. “You’ll see to my recovery tomorrow, won’t you? I have a feeling the shop won’t be open.”

“Really now?” He smiles wide at your nodding reply. “Then we’re going to need more wine.”

There may be time for wine later. Maybe. But for now, there’s just time enough to get more tangled in exploring this sea of Jacob Frye.

Beautiful. Fearsome. Downright deadly in bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob usually meets people under indelicate situations. It's why he has so many amusing stories to tell.
> 
> ( Warnings for mentions of violence/gore. Also, no smut. Sorry. :'[ )

“So, how was it again that you said you’d met?” Evie pours the first cups of tea between the two of you.

“I didn’t.” You reply, staring out the train’s window at an impressively busy station.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t _say_ how we’d met,” you repeat. It’s not a story you’ve told anyone yet. Though, you suppose his sister would be the first to hear it.

“Ah, my mistake. Indulge me though, won’t you?” She leans back into her armchair and gets cozy, sipping gently, silently.

You grasp your own cup and think a moment. “Where even to begin?”

-✩-

The _official_  first time you met the Frye twins had been under the usual circumstances. Evie had made polite introductions while stating that Henry Green had recommended your shop for clothing of “special” qualities. Henry, and what few Assassins would dare come to London, were tentatively welcome in your shop for their needs as long as trouble didn’t follow. The money was simply too good to turn down.

And the way she had tried to drop hints without outright saying that she and her brother were Assassins was almost cute. Almost.

But through her introduction, that name was oddly familiar… You’d definitely heard it somewhere and it rang with unpleasant sensations from head to toe. 

 _Frye_.

It wasn't until you caught sight of Jacob entering your shop just after his sister, stopping in his tracks and staring wide-eyed for a moment before that easy-going smirk found his lips that you remembered exactly who he was.

“Ah, so _this_ is where you come to hide, blue shoes? Good to know.”

Ugh, that name again.

Embarrassed fury roils inside you at him being in close quarters again. At recalling his face, his voice, and that same smile that’d been pressed so close to you before.

Yes, each part of him was unbearably familiar due to the _unofficial_ first time you had met Jacob Frye.

And those circumstances had been most unpleasant.

-✩-

“Jacob, _please_ , listen.”

“I am, Freddie, I am. But let’s have it once more from the top.” He gives his Sergeant friend a warm smile.

The ever-busy officer huffs a breath and begins. “The culprit we’re after is a young woman, average height and build, but beyond that we're not sure. Some reports say she's blonde. Others, brunette. But what we _do know_ is that she —”

“Freddie," the Assasin interrupts. "Is that _really_ the best you've got?"

The Sergeant stares to the side for a moment before giving a short shrug.

“You realize you’ve just described a third of London.”

“Yes, I _know_ , we have scant details. But that’s just it! This woman can’t be caught! No one gets a good look at her, where she goes, or what her transport is.”

Jacob rolls his eyes dramatically. “Then _how_ do you expe—”

“But,” Frederick interrupts, voice hushing low. “We do have one vital _clue_.”

“Well, don’t hold me in suspense, Freddie.”

“She always wears…" The officer leans in close, as though dropping the secret of the century."A pair of _blue shoes_.”

“Blue shoes?” Jacob asks disbelievingly. “With a blue shoe beacon, you’d think your officers would be able to follow.”

Before Frederick can respond to the almost-personal jab, Jacob is on his feet and pulling up his hood.

“Nothing to worry about, Freddie. I’ll catch your elusive… what is she wanted for, again?”

Frederick clears his throat, swallows hard. “Ah, erm… Dismemberment of male appendages.”

“ _Christ_ , Freddie.” Jacob flinches, subconsciously placing a protective hand near his crotch. "Has the station even been reporting this?"

“We're trying to keep this low profile, Jacob. It’s—it’s not good. Each of her victims are too shocked from blood loss, pain, and... well, _shock_  to recall details. What’s more frightening is that… she drops them off at the hospital after _sewing_ them back up. She's not out to kill, Jacob. She's out to torture.”

“She doesn’t happen to go after dashingly handsome Assassins, does she?”

“Think you’d be more than a match for her — Assassin prowess and all. But she does have a pattern here. Her victims all have previous records of being sex offenders. But even with that, we can’t track her.”

Jacob shudders in his coat, steeling himself through the unpleasant shiver in his bones. “Right. Young lady. Sneaky. Blue shoes. Should be easy enough. Wish me luck, Freddie.”

“Good luck, Jacob. And remember, better to come back with blue balls than none at all.”

Jacob scoffs. “ _Terrible_ , Freddie. Really, just awful.”

-✩-

For the most part, the market has been uneventful. Boring, even. Everything is either overpriced or such poor quality that you needn't bother getting out of bed for the trip. But you’ve a profit to make and, in order to do that, you need supplies.

Just as you’re turning away to try another shop in this busy district, you hear a soft ruffle of clothing and feel your arm snatched up and wrenched tightly behind your back.

“Ow! Ow, ow ow!” You raise yourself to the tips of your toes to keep your shoulder from popping out of its socket. “Augh, stop that!”

“Do be quiet. No need to make a fuss.” You hear the words, raspy and low and eerily calm in your ear as the grip loosens just enough to take the edge off.

A chilled shiver licks up your spine and you’re given no time to recover — the figure behind you pushes you to walking in a direction he chooses. His firm grip on your arm, though, has you wincing as you walk.

“Gah, that _hurts_! What do you want?”

“I want you to hush now. Please.” He replies softly, uninterested in your protests, but keeping a painful grip to keep you quiet and compliant.

There’d been rumors in about venturing too far into the market district. Rumors you’d heard but refused to believe. Tales that people could be carted off to a terrible fate with no one to notice, no one to care even in a square this large and busy.

Now, you’re beginning to rethink those rumors. And you’ve no intention of fading into one.

You still your footsteps and your would-be captor bumps into your back just as you start to pull your arm in his grasp. The hand on your wrist twists to an angle painful enough to have you cry out, momentarily attracting attention the man behind you would rather avoid.

“I _suggest_ you stop struggling.” He hisses low, easing some of his hold.

“I only struggled because _you_ _’re_ hurting me!” You hiss back.

You feel the hand tense, ready to twist again and you brace for it, clenching your eyes.

But the pain doesn’t come.

“Fair point,” he says. “But you hardly have the right to complain when you inflict pain on others.”

“I — what did I _do_?! I was just shopping!”

“Shopping for more instruments of torture. We're onto your little schemes. And you'll be paying for your crimes soon enough.” Jacob punctuates the end of his sentence with another shudder, still a bit shaken at recalling the information he'd been told.

“What _the hell_  are you on about? Are you insane?” You ask, attempting to look over your shoulder to at least see the man who is potentially leading you to your end. He turns your head forward brusquely and keeps you moving.

You are dead, oh-so-dead. This crazed man is going to cart you off somewhere and kill you. Probably eat your corpse, too. He certainly could be a cannibal — not that you've ever seen or know what one looks like. But with trepidation and fear rising in your stomach in equal parts, you barely notice him steering you toward the street.

“Playing dumb to save your skin? Cute, blue shoes, but it won’t save you. Bit of a pity — I expected more.” The two of you cross the street with your silently pleading stares attracting no one's attention. “Ah, there’s our ride now.”

"What do my damned  _shoes_ have to do with anything?!" Horrified, you look up, expecting to see a cab full of his cannibal friends with hungry looks and scowls. Instead, it’s just a normal cab. No cannibals (that you can see) and nothing out of the ordinary.

Your captor opens the cab door with a gloved hand and roughly shoves you inside.

“Sit tight, we’ll have you at your new home soon.” He says as he swiftly climbs onto the cab to take the reins. There’s barely time to right yourself up from the floor before you’re thrown back against the seat as the horse whinnies and speeds off.

“Y-you’re a crazed man!” You call from the shaking floor of the carriage, still trying to get up.

“I'm the crazy one? Rich coming from a lady who cuts off balls for entertainment. You should stay down and stay quiet unless you _want_ a bumpy ride to jail?”

“Bumpier than this already is?!” You call out, your voice punctuated by stutters and vibrations that almost have you biting your tongue. Finally, you latch onto the inner cab door handle and pull yourself up to sit. “You’re crazy _and_ you drive like shit!”

He tsks his tongue loudly and you look up, catching his gaze through the viewing window. “Should have stayed on the floor.”

“What are you —” Your body gets thrown forward as the cab comes to a horseshoe-skidding halt, the unimpressed whinnies of the horse overshadow your own pained groans.

“Aw, I’m sorry about that, love.”

“You _damn_ well know you’re not!”

“Not you,” He starts, clicking his tongue and reins before speeding off again. “I’m sorry to scare you like that, sweet thing. Who’s a good horsie? You are.”

Unbelievable.

Here you are, prone on the floor of the cab, nursing your pained body and he’s more concerned about the damn _horse_.

You’ll have to think quickly to get out of this — out of the hands of this madman. There are places to be, things to do, and goals yet completed. Death at the hands of this fool is not an option.

Unfortunately, the opportunity to jump out has come and gone. There’s no way you wouldn’t get yourself severely injured or even killed trying to flee at this galloping speed. The only other option may be to simply wait.

He’s a strong man — to that you’ve already seen. He’s a good head taller than you as well from the way his breath his your ear. And that means chances are he’s heavier than you, too.

 _Great_.

You rest your head against the floor of the cab. He’s got the strength, weight, and height advantage over you... but there  _may_ be something you can do.

Some five or so minutes come and go with that man blathering on honeyed words of encouragement to his horse. You, however, elect to spend them in silence to cement your plan. There will only be one chance at this and you _can_ _’t_ mess this up. He's big, strong, tall, and probably damned fast. But he's seems overconfident. You can work with that.

“Ah, there you are, Freddie!" You can practically hear your captor's smile as he speaks with his accomplice. "You won’t believe the catch of the day.”

“M-Mr. Frye!" Frederick hops down from his own prisoner cab, eagerly awaiting the opposite cab to come to a stop. "Found her already, have you? I knew I could count on you.”

Those words chill your blood cold. They were _targeting_ you?

Where fear remained content to bubble, it now roils into something far more energized. Far more furious. If these sods want a piece of you, whether to fight or to eat, they wouldn’t be getting it.

You take your place in the cab, coiled low and ready to strike.

“Yes, I’d say don’t give your boys a raise anytime soon, Freddie. This one wasn’t exactly hard.”

“Excellent to hear, Mr. Frye. But, please, allow us to take it from here.”

That second voice sounds almost familiar, but in your heated state of panic and rage, you’re willing to ignore it to make one last attempt at freedom. You wait for it. Just a bit longer...

Bootsteps approaching on loose rock and soil.

That man’s voice coming ever closer.

The squeaking of a handle and loosening of a latch.

“All right, now, miss. You’d best come quietly or —”

The instant the door begins to swing open, you kick out with both feet _hard_. Prone on your back and grasping the seats for leverage adds enough explosive force that whoever was on the other side of the door hits the ground with a hard thud and groan.

You have to move. _Now!_

The first step out of the cabin is the shakiest. The second has you steadied and balanced, ready to run. It’s the third that you feel an arm snaking about your waist, lightning quick, hoisting you off the ground and into the air. With the ringing of metal on metal in your ears as a concealed blade snaps out close to your neck.

“Steady now,” your captor warns.

An _Assassin_? Just perfect...

You’d had vague suspicions before, but with there being so scant few in all of London you’d never imagined one to be here after you. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s a wonder the man isn’t a Templar.

“W-wait, Jacob!” Comes a coughing, breathless voice. “That’s — that’s not her.”

Just a moment, you _do_ recognize that voice. Hidden blade or not, you crane your head to see who’s speaking.

Poor Frederick pulls himself up out of the dust, apparently your kick had been a powerful one. He coughs off some dust and debris and shuts the cabin door to bring himself into full view. He looks a mess, and as much as you’d like to praise yourself for downing an officer with a single kick, you’re still stuck in the arms of Frederick’s hired Assassin and the blade he wields.

“You’re sure, Freddie? She’s got blue shoes and everyth—”

“I’m _sure_ , Mr. Frye! Please, put her down this instant!”

He does so, retracting his blade, and dropping you to your feet unceremoniously. There’s a moment spent between the two of you — you and this _Jacob Frye_ — where you eye him with cautious rage before you turn your attention back to Frederick.

Frederick Abberline.

Sergeant of Metropolitan Police within London.

The man with whom you had _personally_ drafted a contract for the creation, repair, and sale of police uniforms at an incredibly low price. Simply because he was a good man trying to do good in the world.

And now here he is, acting out in suspicious ways unbecoming of an officer. Hiring an _Assassin_ to do his work for him. Poorly, at that.

You march up to him and he removes his hat, looking every bit apologetic. It doesn’t save him from a swift hit to the shoulder.

“Frederick! I can’t believe you!” You shout in disbelief, pounding his shoulder once more. And several times more to punctuate your sentence. “Frederick! Abberline! Did you hire this — this _goon_ to kidnap me?!”

“I-If you’d just give me a moment to — it’s not quite how it — please, a thousand pardons, I simply —” The poor man can barely get in a word from your half-thrown, but quite enraged hits.

“Looks to be a case of mistaken identity, ma'am. No need to murder the Sergeant.” The voice of your would-be cannibal, would-be captor, would-be errand boy of Frederick’s speaks.

“YOU.” You turn to him just as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “You — _you_ don’t talk to me, don’t touch to me, don’t even _look_ at me!”

He chuckles softly and nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s that look on his face, that smile on his lips and quirk of his brow, that screams he is a man who gets away with much more than he should. He’s confident, bordering on arrogant. And you narrow your gaze at him.

He narrows his gaze in return, canting his head just slightly. “Anything else, ma’am?”

If he’s waiting for a reply, you don’t give him one. Instead, you turn your attention back to Frederick and allow him a moment to explain. He explains the culprit they seek and the condition of her victims. It's a frightfully nasty topic about a vicious woman, for sure.

But it's not you. _Definitely_ , not you.

Though, there is something about watching Frederick tiptoe around the topic of Jacob, often times referring to the Assassin as a “specialist” instead of what he truly is. Surely, Frederick would know the looks, talents, and missions of Assassins. But he seems content to have you excluded for the informative loop you've been within all along. And you play the unwitting commoner as he finishes his explanation.

“Shoes." You say plainly, glancing at your feet. "This whole ordeal started over _shoes_?”

“Y—yes, ma’am.” Frederick’s hands are starting to turn rubbed shades of red from wringing the rim of his hat so much. Poor man looks ready to turn over in his grave.

“That's unfortunate, Frede — Mr. Abberline,” you start, trying to cool some of your annoyance. “But I trust that _this_ won’t be happening again?”

“No, ma’am.” This is what the Sergeant has been reduced to — yes ma’ams and no ma’ams.

“Good. Then have your errand boy escort me back to the square. _Without_ the theatrics and threats this time, if you please.” There’s still work to be done and orders to fill. Your schedule was already looking full without this colossal delay.

And, with some gentle pleading from Frederick, Jacob climbs onto the cab. Frederick helps you inside and speaks through the door-side window.

“I-I trust this won’t hurt our current relations? The department is very fond of the uniforms your shop makes, ma’am.”

“No, Mr. Abberline. None of the services provided to you will be any less than they've always been.” You offer the nervous man a gentle smile that soon fades with your next warning. “But I caution you to be wary of who you hire, Sergeant.”

If he has a reply, you don’t hear it. Jacob and his favored horse set the cab in motion and head back to the market square. It’s a short ride, blessedly smooth, and almost pleasant as you have time (and silence) to think.

An Assassin you haven’t yet heard about is in London?

Normally, Henry gives you you notification of these things — makes it much easier to prep your workload for additional Assassin clothes to be made. After all, any Assassin who stops through usually visits Green in his shop for valuable information he can provide and Henry usually tosses about a recommendation to see you.

But perhaps this man is unexpected company even to Henry? Or an Assassin unable to make ends meet who hires himself out for odd jobs?

No, that can’t be right.

But if he’s not Green’s guest and not here for services… Why is he here at all? Working with police to clean up the streets of London...

A flash of a idea crosses your mind, gracing your lips thoughtful smirk. Perhaps the city will be seeing a new field agent after going without Assassin care for so long.

With a nickering snort, the cabin comes to a halt and bounces softly as Jacob hops down. He approaches the door handle, but you swiftly opt to let yourself out. The both of you nearly bump into each other as the door swings open and you exit. There are no pardons or apologies or even a quip from him, though.

He does, however, place a hand over his eyes and grins.

You furrow your brow and call over the roar of sellers and buyers in the market nearby. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t recall, ma’am? You asked me not to talk to you, touch you, or even _look_ at you.” He peeks out from under his hand playfully, making sure you catch his vision before he covers his sight again. "Ma'am."

Great, a _playful_ Assassin. A sighing groan escapes your chest as you close the door.

“While you do that, please send word to Frederick to keep an eye out for the shops that sell dyed shoes or dyes. Blue shoes won’t last long in this city and will need to be meticulously cleaned or colored again.”

You should know. These shoes are rarely taken out of the closet save for days you want to impress, but since that opportunity has been blown away…

“And the reason you didn’t tell him yourself?” He asks behind his closed-off vision. Even with his hand partially blocking, you can make out that scarred brow raising quizzically. “You seem to know each other _just_ fine.”

“You’re his errand boy, aren’t you?” You note the smile fading from his lips. “Do as you’re told, Mr. Frye.”

His lips part as you begin to walk away, no doubt ready to blast back with a clever retort.

“Ah, and do say hello to Mr. Green for me, won’t you? Tell him he’s welcome by any time.”

 _That_ gets his attention. The playful hand drops and the look of concentration on his face is apparent. His secret is exposed and he looks about, trying to track your movements in the bustling crowds. He won’t find you, though. Not until later. Much, much later.

When he and his sister waltz into your shop with requests of their own.

-✩-

“You _kicked_ poor Frederick?” Evie strains the word, trying to hide her amusement behind the rim of her teacup.

“Wha — I thought I was going to be murdered and chopped up and _eaten_ , Evie!”

There’s a burst of giggles between the two of you, with your teacups held out to keep from spilling. And before Evie can reply, a familiar voice carries in from the window you’d been staring out of not long ago.

“To be fair,” Jacob says, leaning in on the windowsill with his chin resting on an upturned palm. “I _have_ done at least one of those things to you.” He raises his arms to lift and pull himself into the opening feet first as though he’d done it a thousand times prior.

His sister scoffs, reaching for her drink. “And just how long have you felt the need to eavesdrop, you sneak?”

“Right around the very beginning.” He strides across the train car and makes himself comfortable on the couch beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. A bit _too_ comfortable given his sister is sitting a few feet away. “I’ve told Agnes we’re ready to go. And your _darling_ Greenie is in the next car waiting for you to go over some documents.”

“Yes, I know. We were waiting for _you_ before we left _,_ ” she points out and places down her cup. “Thank you for the story, though. It’s always… _amusing_ seeing my dear brother in someone else’s eyes.”

“Pleasure’s mine, Evie.” You say back to her as she exits the car to join her much-preferred company. Jacob’s gaze follows his sister out before resting back on you.

“Did you _have_ to tell her the whole story?” He shifts around you, turning you to lie against him more than sitting beside him.

It’s a comforting gesture that you don’t mind. Ever since those first few nights spent together, he’s been showing a more affectionate side of himself. And finding yourself laying here with him, your head in his lap with one of his hands rubbing slow circles in your hair while the other remains content to lie across your stomach, you breathe out soft relief.

“I’ve nothing to hide from Evie." You tilt your head against his lap and catch his gaze. "We’ve come a long way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmmn,” comes a contented purr of a reply. “I sound so brash and reckless when you tell it, though.”

“You _are_ brash and reckless,” your response earns you a gentle pinch of your nose closed, distorting your voice. “Ah, excuse me, I meant to say you are a clever and capable man, both in and out of bed.”

That’s the ticket. Your nose is released and he leans forward to meet you halfway for a chuckling kiss. “That’s more like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I was thinking about for a while that I had time to do today due to my D&D session being cancelled. (Which is really sad 'cause it's a good group and a great DM and masterful campaign setting and I want to die without it.)
> 
> And hey, I made a tumblr! darkchocolatepleasecake.tumblr.com  
> Come tell me stuff you want to read about or just chitchat or watch me fumble around.
> 
> (Also, I went back to fix a buuunch of typos because I didn't proof very well. So very sorry if that spams out notifications.)

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who've read my ongoing story, [Pieces of Something](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6166906), this is a big, big thank you for being so patient with me as I've gone through some interesting life emergencies and had to put the story on hold for longer than I've liked. If you have some questions about this particular story, feel free to ask. I try to find time for every comment, but as we know, life finds a way to get in the way.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! ✩


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